


Water in the Sun

by Mila_Ros



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, Horcruxes, M/M, Magic, Mild Gore, Pining, Quest, Rating May Change, Romance, Slow Build, Socially-awkward Thorin, Student Bilbo, Violence, happy ending I promise
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-01
Updated: 2015-10-12
Packaged: 2017-12-13 14:39:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 106,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/825452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mila_Ros/pseuds/Mila_Ros
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bilbo Baggins was proud to say that within two weeks of his arrival at Hogwarts, he had successfully fallen into respectable unimportance, where he remained for many years. </p><p>Six years, to be exact; until his seventh, which marked three things of import: his own thirty-third birthday, the retirement of Headmaster Sarumon and subsequent promotion of Professor Galadriel, and - most notably - the arrival of the dwarves. </p><p>Then it all went to hell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Never Forget a Wizard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To avoid confusion, "elves" will be used in this story to refer to Rowling's elves (house elves). Tolkien's elves will be called edhil. Likewise, "goblin" will refer to Rowling's goblins, and "orc" will be used across the board for Tolkien's goblins and orcs.

As ever at the start of a new year, the walls of the Great Hall echoed with noise and merriment. Nothing could bring together a people – no matter how diverse – so well as a universally-appreciated meal. There was something for everyone, and usually in abundance, though the hobbits of the hall always put the refilling plates to the test.

Plates of food were passed and – if by a dwarf – thrown from one student to the next. Laughter, chatter, and many pleased-to-meet-yous swelled in a roar of happy noise, such that even the most tentative of first years founds themselves drawn from their shells.

Bilbo himself had taken it upon himself to greet the newest members of his house. They were a quiet, but eager bunch, fairly typical of new Ravenclaws; and those who conquered their shyness were soon asking Bilbo a multitude of questions, from how the candles floated to when classes began and which professors ought to be avoided and when.

Bilbo attended happily enough, and did an admirable job of stifling his disappointment at the Sorting.

 _No hobbits in Ravenclaw, again._ Bilbo sighed. He was a bit of an irregularity, he knew. (And even should he ever forget, his dreadful cousin Lobelia Sackville-Baggins would remind him again.) After all, hobbits were almost a sure-sort. Loyalty? Camaraderie? A love of comfort and rules? A dorm next to the kitchens? Most hobbits took to Hufflepuff like a duck to water – and it only helped matters that Hufflepuffs were notoriously good at working with Earth Magic, every hobbit’s specialty.

Sure, the occasional Took would come along, and be the talk of the school when they were sorted eagerly into Gryffindor; but none created quite such a stir as Bilbo Baggins, who had seemed quite the respectable fellow until his sorting time, where he had sat for a full eight minutes as the hat deliberated. When finally the call had gone out for Ravenclaw, even the professors at the Head Table had seemed surprised. The son of Head Boy and Girl Hufflepuff Bungo Baggins and Gryffindor Belladonna Took, gone to neither house? It seemed a strange mistake.

But Bilbo had soon proved himself quite the academic sort, a lover of maps and histories, and if his excellent grades hadn’t convinced the school of the hat’s decision, his reputation as the only one who could answer any of the riddles posed by the Ravenclaw knocker soon did the trick.

Still, Bilbo would not have minded another hobbit for company. His housemates were wonderful – the goblins in particular he got along with quite well – but it would have been nice to have a friend, or someone whose interest in Bilbo did not begin with an academic interrogation of what exactly hobbits _were_.

Luckily the Ravenclaw table sat close to Hufflepuff’s, and Bilbo found easy conversation with his dear friend Hamfast Gamgee as the two fell into dispute over the best methods of roasted potatoes and getting bigglerook sprouts to stop eating each other.

However, when Professor Galadriel, newly-appointed headmistress of Hogwarts School of Magical Learning, rose from the Head Table, all conversation and movement immediately ceased.  

A tall, grave figure in her white robes – specifically chosen so as to be non-preferential towards any house – Professor Galadriel commanded respect and attention. Until Bilbo’s third year, she had served the school as professor of both Divination and Occlumency. It wasn’t until Professor Saruman had left his post as headmaster that Galadriel had come forward to lead the school, and she did so with solemn efficacy.

If Bilbo occasionally felt lonely in his house, he often wondered how Professor Galadriel felt: head of a school in which she was the only edhil at all, for her kind – like many dwarves – preferred to pursue their education within their own institutions.

“We’re not finished here,” Bilbo hissed to Hamfast across the divide between the Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff tables.

“I swear it’s the doxies!” Hamfast returned. “They make the soil thinner!”

Bilbo shook his head, turned round, and quickly shoveled one last bite of fish into his mouth before putting down his fork.

All around, others in the Great Hall followed suit, ending their conversations and meals to attend Galadriel’s first welcoming speech. Eventually, all motion in the hall ceased entirely, save for one professor, a new dwarf, who continued eating with ferocious tenacity as Galadriel stood, regal and golden at the podium.

A few students muttered. Lobelia in particular looked scandalized at the apparent rudeness of the dwarf; but Professor Galadriel said not a word, only looking out over the hall with steady solemnity.

Bilbo’s attention bounced, torn between the headmistress’ imposing figure and the wide motions of the frantically-feeding dwarf. He had now moved onto the cheeses, shoveling blocks into his mouth, almost faster than the plate could refill itself.

Entranced, no one said a word.

At last Galadriel moved. She tilted her head as if listening to a whisper. Then she smiled and looked over to the Gryffindor table.

“You may wish,” she said, voice thrumming deep and kind, to the young hobbit Primula, “to move a seat over.”

Primula, a fourth year herself, had grown used to the eccentricities of their headmistress, and so she only looked confused for a moment before shuffling down the bench.

No sooner had she done so than BANG! The doors of the Great Hall flew open.

Several students shrieked, and many more upset their plates at the sudden eruption of noise. Bard, in fact, was so startled that he upended an entire jug of pumpkin juice. It spill over the table to splash all over the spot on the bench where, just a few moments ago, Primula had been sitting.

The hobbit lass looked at the sticky mess dripping to the floor, smoothed a hand over her well-laundered robes, and shot the headmistress a grateful look.

Galadriel waved her hand, vanishing the mess, and Bilbo was so busy watching the movement and wondering how he himself would try it – hobbits were fair hands at wandless magic, after all – that he missed looking back at the source of the great disturbance. Still, he heard the first year beside him, a Muggleborn human girl with dark skin and even darker hair, whisper reverently:

“Is that _Merlin_?”

“What?” Bilbo asked, turning in his chair to look. A very old wizard stood, leaning upon a staff in the doorway. At first glance, he seemed to match the description of Merlin from the history books. His beard was long, grey and full as a storm cloud, and he wore long robes and a matching pointed hat.

But rather than blue, these robes were a faded grey to match his beard. Many Ravenclaws liked to claim that those robes had once been Ravenclaw blue as well, only fading to grey after centuries of travel and use and dust from the roads. Bilbo knew him immediately.

“Oh no,” he moaned. “I'd so hoped that the big dwarf would be the new Pilgrimage and Service professor.” To the first year’s confused glance, Bilbo explained. “That’s _Gandalf_.” Her eyes widened, for while he was no Merlin, Professor Gandalf had quite the reputation. Some lauded him as the greatest wizard of their time, and others knew him to be madder than a box of frogs. No one looked forward to his classes.

Professor Gandalf taught the exclusive-to-seventh-years class, Pilgrimage and Service, a class introduced to Hogwarts many years after the defeat of Voldemort in honor of the great Harry Potter. For ages, Gandalf had taught the class, advising students in their graduation projects: either a noteworthy pilgrimage (a tradition inspired by Harry Potter’s own hunt for the horcruxes during his seventh year) or a stint of community service.

As everyone knew, Gandalf always recommended the pilgrimage. He would send off seventh years on mad adventures which often lasted months on end. Students would come back harried, robes torn and covered in the worst kind of magical muck; one goblin had even gotten lost in Bulgaria – the next year’s pilgrimage had been a Quest to find and return him to Hogwarts.

Bilbo’s own mother, Belladonna Took, had been the first hobbit to choose a pilgrimage: a diplomatic journey to Rivendell to study amongst the edhil, and to collect Gandalf’s old pipe that he’d left there the month before.

Yes, nobody looked forward to Gandalf’s class, and Bilbo especially so. This was his seventh year, after all. He was resolute: community service for him. He didn’t care if Gandalf had him mucking out the Hippogriff stalls for four months – he was a Baggins, and would not be going on any adventures, thank you very much.

“Mithrandir,” Galadriel greeted from the podium. She smiled openly, and spread her hands in invitation. At the motion, several chairs moved to the side, taking their squeaking students with them, to clear a path from the doors to the Head Table. “What news?”

“And what time for it?” The grey wizard returned, walking easily up to where Galadriel stood. He clasped her hands in greeting, spoke something very quietly, and moved to stand behind her.

Finally, the headmistress addressed the Great Hall.

“Welcome to Hogwarts School of Magical Learning,” she said, and Bilbo’s Muggleborn neighbor stiffened with shock. Bilbo wondered what exactly the girl was hearing – Galadriel was the best Legilimens of their time, and had no difficulty in speaking individually to all her students at once.

He himself hear a fond, “ _Welcome back to your seventh year, Bilbo Baggins, and c_ _ongratulations on your prized tomatoes. You’ll find Hamfast Gamgee quite mistaken about the doxies,_ ” go through his mind, as aloud Galadriel spoke: “In a few moments, you will either return to your plates – ” a first year hobbit gave a cheer “ – or retire to your beds. Yet before either, we will introduce Professor Bombur, who has come from Erebor to relieve Professor Balin from his Earth Magic lessons.”

The white-bearded dwarf, Professor Balin, raised his hands in greeting, and clapped Professor Bombur (who had finally stopped eating) on the back.

Several students sighed with disappointment, and Hamfast moaned: “But I signed up for Earth Magic this year just for Professor Balin!”

“You can hardly blame him for wanting a break,” Bilbo whispered back. “He’s been teaching Ancient Studies, History of Magic, _and_ Earth Magic for over twenty years now!”

Hamfast still looked morose. “I was looking forward to it, is all.”

“Professor Bombur will not be the only dwarf come to Hogwarts from Erebor,” Galadriel continued. “Professor Gandalf has just brought news of a company of dwarves which will be joining us in their studies this year.”

At this news, murmurs of surprise filled the hall, and the handful of dwarven students at their tables looked elated. Dwarves aged more slowly than goblins, hobbits, humans, or sprites. Like the edhil, they preferred their own schools, where the classes were tailored specifically to their own needs and interests. Occasionally, a human interested in craftsmanship or a goblin looking to learn about mining would study abroad in Erebor or Ered Luin; but these instances were so few and far between that they may as well have never happened. Dwarves were private, and proud, and instead of several years, their schooling took decades.

Not that Hogwarts was ignorant of dwarves entirely. Professor Balin had been Head of Ravenclaw for over thirty years, and many witches and hobbit lasses took Ancient Runes and Arithmancy for the sole purpose of sighing over the adorably shy Professor Ori. And occasionally a dwarf could not afford the tuition of Erebor or Ered Luin; Hogwarts had a separate curriculum for those few cases, which took a much longer time to complete. Slgnir, Slytherin’s own resident dwarf, had been at the school for some forty years. She often helped Bilbo with his studies of the dwarven languages.

But for an entire company to come at once, and from the elite Erebor! It was more than a bit unusual.   

“They will be arriving,” Gandalf cut in over the clamor. “Individually, so as to not cause a great disruption to our classes. Do not be clouts, and don’t offend them, if you can help it. For pity’s sake,” he added with a stern glance over at Hufflepuff’s table. “Do not hog their food.” He looked at the Ravenclaw table. “Do not pry into their business.” To the Slytherin table: “They are here to learn, not to make political or diplomatic allies, so do not bother them as such. And remember,” he looked at the Gryffindor table at last, “differences are natural, and necessary, in this world. Perhaps a person has different views and different cultures to your own. That does not make them wrong.

“These dwarves are to be our guests. Not our entertainment. Treat them as you would any other – with respect.”

“Thank you, Mithrandir. We look forward to the arrival of our newest friends. Now,” Galadriel gestured to her left. “You must be weary. Rest. Eat. To the rest, I invite you to do the same. You are wished a pleasant evening.”

With that, Galadriel reclaimed her seat, smiling at the cheers which followed. Just as pleased as ever with Galadriel’s characteristically short speech, Bilbo clapped loudly with the rest of the hall and readied himself to tuck back into his meal as the first years were dismissed.

Sadly, he wouldn’t get the chance. “Baggins!” Grimdela Grout, one of Ravenclaw’s prefects, walked by. She reached up to grab a handful of Bilbo’s curly brown hair and tug. “You’re with me. All right first years – I’m tired. Let’s get this over with. Follow me.”  

A sixth-year goblin with wickedly sharp eyes and an even sharper tongue, Grimdela’s tone booked no argument. First years scrambled to collect their things and follow, trotting up the staircases to Ravenclaw tower with only a few questions from the bravest of the lot.

“The pictures move?” Bilbo’s Muggleborn asked. “Are they alive?”

“In a way,” another first year replied.

“Do they age?”

This question seemed to offend a nearby portrait, a lovely Veela posed in a moonlit valley, who sniffed and continued brushing her long silver hair with haughty pride.

Within ten minutes – ten minutes in which Bilbo’s stomach rumbled discontentedly, oh why couldn’t the Ravenclaw dormitory be close to the kitchens like Hufflepuff’s? – the group reached the Common Room wall. A seemingly random bit of decoration, a regal golden eagle’s head sat upon an otherwise blank wall. Grimdela released Bilbo’s hair.

“There’s no need for violence Grimdela, honestly,” Bilbo fussed, rubbing at his scalp and straightening his tie. Was it too much to ask for some respect? The number of times Bilbo had almost been sat upon in the Common Room! You’d think Hogwarts hadn’t had centuries to get used to hobbit-sized students. Once, Bilbo had even fallen asleep while studying in the library, and awoken to find the entire place locked up, the librarian having not seen Bilbo over his pile of books.

Even now, despite their youth, all of the first years towered over Bilbo. He didn’t even come close to Grimdela, who had a good foot over him as she pointed a long finger first at Bilbo’s face, then the wall behind them.

“This,” she said. “Is Mister Baggins, and this is the Ravenclaw Common Room. To get in, you’ll need to do what most students will never do their entire time here at Hogwarts, what you were put into Ravenclaw to do: You’ll need to _think_.”

Some of the first years tittered; and one particularly stern-looking wizard with curly black hair raised his hand.

“And why did you bring Mister Baggins with us? None of the other prefects had company.”

Grimdela narrowed her eyes approvingly. “Good catch. Any guesses?” More tittering.

“Does Mister Baggins ask us questions?” finally wondered a witch.

“How could he?” asked another. “If Mister Baggins had to ask us a question every time we wanted in the room, he’d never have classes!” Bilbo shifted on his feet as they worked it out, trying to not think too longingly of his unfinished apple pie downstairs.

“What _is_ Mister Baggins, anyway?” wondered the stern wizard. Bilbo glowered.

“ _Mister Baggins_ ,” he said, crossing his arms to look as fierce as possible (a few of the girls cooed), “Is a seventh-year hobbit, your _senior_ , and he is currently missing out on supper, so if you don’t mind…”

“Here,” broke in a goblin, who had been examining the eagle knocker with one long, sharp finger. “There’s an enchantment on this: goblin-make, I’d guess.”

“Dwarf,” countered another. “Look at the runes.”

The goblin wrinkled her nose, but shrugged.

It was Bilbo’s Muggleborn who eventually figured it out. “If the knocker’s magic, and we have to think, then the knocker probably asks us questions. So the questions are probably always different. Missus Grout said that she wanted to go to bed soon, so she wants to get in quickly. If she brought Mister Baggins, then he’s probably best at answering the questions. That way, if we get stuck, Mister Baggins can let us in. 

“That’s right,” Grimdela praised, though it sounded biting and harsh. Bilbo had asked her once, in his second year, why she always sounded so angry.

“Gobbledegook doesn’t have inflections like English,” she’d growled with apparent rage, before smiling. “I’m working on it.”

Five years later, she still hadn’t quite got the knack, and with a menacing snarl she awarded: “Five points for Ravenclaw, Romas.” To the rest of them, she said, “If you ever get stuck, and can’t get in, then ask Mister Baggins for help.”

Oh, not again! Bilbo despaired. “Not this year, Grimdela,” he begged. “I’m busy enough. I’m teaching remedials this year. And I _like_ my privacy, thank you very much!”

“I try to time my meals, so I get back around the same time as Mister Baggins,” Grimdela continued as if Bilbo had not spoken. “But if that doesn’t work, then try your best. Sometimes the knocker doesn’t like it if you ask for help, and it’ll make you answer another. Now, who wants a go?”

Without pause, the black-haired wizard stepped up to swing the knocker three times; and the first years watched with awe as the eagle’s face sharpened, became more life-like, and demanded: “The only thing easier done than said, is silence.”

“But that’s not a question at all!” The boy protested.

“Not even a riddle.”

“But is it true?” prompted Grimdela. “Is it false? Prove it.”

There fell a contemplative silence. Most of the first years looked thrilled, and three witches had joined up with another goblin to debate.

“Grimdela, really, I’m very hungry!” Bilbo complained. “And like to miss supper, at this rate. Let them figure it out, and come get me if you need help.”

“I’ll not sit out here for hours, Baggins,” she waved a hand at the knocker. “Go on then.”

Bilbo sighed, wiggled his toes, and stepped in front of the knocker. Its pupil-less eagle eyes sharpened, and it let out an eager croak.

“Baggins!” It said. “Here’s a new one for you! The only thing easier done than said, is silence.” Bilbo thought for a moment, rubbed behind his ear, and thought of the Ravenclaw Common Room, which could always be relied upon to have at least one sleepless student bent over a book or parchment.

“What but death can quiet the mind?”

The eagle made a clacking sound, which Bilbo had always thought of as laughter. “What indeed,” it said as the runes ran from around its neck like water, arching down the stone wall until they made the golden outline of a door, which shone for a moment before swinging open.

The first years had trickled in, making awed noises at the vast, airy parlor, though Bilbo did hear as he turned round on the stairs some squabbling about his answer, and one goblin looked back at Bilbo oddly before saying, “But we already ate supper!”

Bilbo did not care. This was his final year at Hogwarts! His final year with access to the Great Hall: the main draw for all hobbits to study at Hogwarts. Where else would you find an _unlimited supply of food_? Sure enough, when he returned to the Great Hall, huffing and puffing and adjusting his robes, the tables had all been pushed together, and hobbits of all houses had gathered round to begin their second feast.

One change from routine: Tonight Professor Bombur sat among them, keeping an astonishing pace with Hufflepuff’s Fredregar “Fatty” Bolger.

Hamfast Gamgee - who forever hovered between the line of "friend" and "friend of the family" - had saved Bilbo a seat, and Bilbo took it and a warm cup of tea with effusive thanks.

“First years, eh?” Hamfast shook his head. “More trouble than they’re worth, if you ask me.”

“If you ask _me_ ,” Bilbo said in stout reply. “I’d say you’ve got a bit of a liar about you, Hamfast Gamgee. Or was it someone else I saw, who couldn’t keep his eyes off the newest Gryffindor lass? What was her name, Goodchild?”

Hissing, Hamfast looked down the table with a red neck and, once sure that the lovely Bell Goodchild had not overheard from her conversation with Primula, he turned with a scowl on Bilbo. “Blast you Ravenclaws! You notice too much, Bilbo. It’ll get you in trouble, one of these days!”

Hamfast had been saying the same thing since their first year, when Bilbo had pointed out a mistake in Hamfast’s pronunciation of a basic transfiguration spell.

As always, Bilbo replied: “It’d be like to get me out of it, just as well.” And primly the two returned to their supper, happy to eat their fill and return to their dormitories with minimum conversation after that.

That didn’t stop him from eavesdropping, however, and he heard two new Hufflepuff hobbits talking to Lobelia about the houses. His ears pricked up at mention of his own name, and he scowled when Lobelia launched into her usual rant.

“That Bilbo has always been an odd one,” she whispered loudly. “We’re cousins you know, of a distant sort, and even when we were younger he was always talking about _adventures_ and stories and such. Too much Took in his blood, if you ask me, and not enough Baggins.”

“Good thing nobody asked you, then,” Paladin Took shot over with a scowl. “And you don’t have the right to start talking about houses, Lobelia!”

The hobbit in question turned a bright red. It was a well-known secret that Lobelia had been a shoe-in for the Slytherin house, a sorting which would have caused an even greater scandal than Bilbo’s. Lobelia had sat upon the stool for a full minute, her brow furrowing with each passing second, and she seemed to be engaged in a silent battle with the hat. When the hat had seemed to come to a decision, it had only managed to shout out, “SLYTH” before Lobelia had yelled over it, “I said NO! I’m going to be in Hufflepuff!” And that was that.

Truly, Bilbo couldn’t blame her; for a few of the first year hobbits did stare at him oddly throughout the second feast. Used to it, and confident the attention would fade in a few days, Bilbo retired alone to his rooms. There alone and undisturbed, he allowed himself to relax.

Though of disturbances, he thought he’d soon have a few new ones to worry about. “What _of_ those new dwarves?” He wondered to himself as he sat up in bed, curtains pulled to keep the light from the reading lamps out. “Ridiculous idea, to have them come one by one. Imagine a dinner party where your guests came hours after each other! Always having to get up and answer the door, never able to settle – classes will be constantly disturbed! Though,” he considered. “Imagine the opposite! All the guests arriving at once! Opening the door to have a baggle of dwarves just topple on in. What a mess!”

But Bilbo Baggins was, above all things, a hobbit; and hobbits were masters of avoiding the uncomfortable. He’d simply never mind the new dwarves, whenever they came, and let nothing distract him from his classes. This was Bilbo’s last year. Only a few months to go, and one horrible trial through fire with Professor Gandalf, and he would be able to return to his beloved Shire, free to grow his garden and tend to Bag End to his heart’s content.

If the dwarves made a fuss – and what a fuss they were sure to make! – then Bilbo was resolved to put it out of his mind. He fell asleep, reassured in his lack of concern.

Poor Bilbo. It would have been a fine plan indeed; except that he forgot all about Gandalf.


	2. Dwarves in the Kitchen

“Ah Mister Baggins,” said Gandalf, hand fast on Bilbo's shoulder to prevent the hobbit from running. Around them, the crowd of students surged. Hogwarts hallways were always busy, full of bustling students, harried teachers, and contained explosions; but they were even worse at the start of the year. New students eager to get to their first classes on time bustled by in a frenzy, upending stools and sending books and bags flying.

One first year Gryffindor in particular was apologizing tearfully to an older Slytherin student, whose neat red hair she had accidentally doused with slime from her dropped wand. (The Slytherin was too busy laughing hysterically to accept her apology, which Bilbo supposed was a good thing.) The rest of the student body, used to the mazes and tricks of Hogwarts, milled about reluctantly to their classes.

Not Bilbo. He had been hurrying best he could, closer to being late than he could ever accept. Still, he felt this wasn't his fault - he'd been interrupted thrice that morning, such that he'd had to rush solely to get through two servings of breakfast.

“Mister Baggins,” had said the first goblin, wringing his hands anxiously. “I forgot my bag in the room, but the knocker won’t let me through! What speaks with words as no one hears, is cherished over many years, highest highs and lowest lows, has no body but always grows?”

“Music,” Bilbo'd said easily. “But make sure not to say song - that's probably where you got stuck. Please pass the butter.”

“Mister Baggins!” Rosie Romas had not two minutes later tugged the sleeve of Bilbo’s robes. “The eagle is asking me how the best way is to capture a hinkypunk – but I don’t know anything about hinkypunks! I’m Muggleborn!”

“Then just say so,” Bilbo had begun to grow annoyed, as the girl’s grip on his sleeve kept him from reaching for the lemon blueberry scones. “It’ll change its question, if you need.” She had nodded, face flush with gratitude, before scurrying off. "I recommend you do your homework!" Bilbo'd shouted after her. "The eagle will know what you should be studying, and it'll quiz you!"

The final riddle had actually given him some trouble, and while the answer evaded him he could not focus on his meal. Finally, five minutes before the bullfrog enchanted to croak out the end of breakfast went off, he realized: “Time! The answer is time! Now off you get, Herglebog, and take Rosie with you, she looks like she’s forgotten her wand again.”

Now late himself, Bilbo had been hurrying from the Great Hall with half a scone in hand when he’d been stopped by none other than Professor Gandalf himself.

“Just the hobbit I happened to be looking for,” the old wizard said. Then, with a twinkle in his eye, “Or perhaps, more likely, just the hobbit I happened to find.”

Bilbo frowned, fairly certain he ought to be offended. “Sir?”

“I’m currently looking for someone to help me with an errand,” Gandalf began, but Bilbo quickly cut in.

“Oh no,” he waggled a finger up at the taller wizard. A passing sprite snorted at the gesture. Perhaps a hobbit – particularly an unassuming hobbit like Bilbo Baggins, with well-kept brown curls covering his head and feet – did not look quite so threatening, when scolding a wizard three times his height.

Still, Bilbo had not gotten through the scrutiny of six years at Hogwarts without learning how to stand up for himself. “Begging your pardon, professor,” he said, straightening his blue-striped tie. “But I’ve heard quite a bit about your ‘errands,’ and you’ll excuse my saying that they sound like terrible business. They make you late for classes!”

He didn’t mention poor Abigail Witchit, who had once gone off on a “short errand” to the northern tower for Gandlaf, only to be discovered hours later, covered in dust and drool and jumping at loud noises. But he didn’t have to. Gandalf was well aware of his own reputation.

He was also well aware of the ways of hobbits, and so he only smiled, leaned upon his staff, and mentioned, “It involves a trip to the kitchens.” Bilbo perked up. “And as the class to which you are so admirably rushing towards is in fact my own, I shall forgive your tardiness this once. In fact, you will be pleased to note that I am not inclined to teach today, and so the class will be delayed.”

Any errand involving the kitchens sounded fine to Bilbo, but Gandalf seemed disproportionally pleased, and Bilbo remained suspicious. He dithered, shifted his book bag to the other shoulder, scratched beneath his collar, and asked, “Well, what sort of errand is it?”

Gandalf seized his chance like a Seeker does a Snitch.

“An admirable one, my dear Mister Baggins, and I am pleased that you have decided to take it on. I trust you will take the greatest care of our guest. Now, as you yourself cleverly noted, I am almost late to cancel my own class. Excuse me, Mister Baggins, Master Dwalin,” and as Gandalf vanished into the throng of students around them, Bilbo finally noticed that the wizard had been partially obscuring a previously unseen third member of their party.

Though how Bilbo could have missed this dwarf, he’d never know.

None of the Hogwart dwarves looked like this one, not even Professor Bombur! This dwarf was tall, almost as tall as a wizard, and he appeared dressed for battle: knuckle-dusters covered his heavily tattooed hands, and in his ashy beard hung what looked like bits of dragon’s teeth. Bilbo thought he recognized the runes for “pain,” “stone,” and “birth” circling the dwarf’s shaven head, and when he looked – oh my! – he saw that an entire chunk had been bitten out of the dwarf’s right ear.

Then the dwarf spoke, which deepened his frown. “Dwalin,” he said. “Son of Fundin, at your service.” And he bowed, eyes fast on Bilbo as if expecting the hobbit to pull a knife.

Thanking his stars for Professor Balin’s elaborate history lessons, Bilbo barely remembered the appropriate response for greeting new dwarves in time to bow clumsily. “Bilbo Baggins, er, son of Bungo and Belladonna Baggins, at yours and your family’s.”

Satisfied, the dwarf looked at Bilbo. Bilbo looked back. A first-year hobbit slammed into Dwalin’s elbow, and squeaked with fright when the dwarf turned to look at her. She ran, and when the dwarf turned back, Bilbo only just kept himself from following her lead.

“Which way is it, laddie?”

Around them both, the halls had emptied of all but the latest of students. Bilbo stared. “I’m sorry?”

With a sidelong glance which suggested that he thought Bilbo a bit slow, Dwalin crossed his arms with impatience. His muscles bulged, and many dark veins stood out threateningly. What a skill, Bilbo thought faintly, to be able to intimidate with your wrists alone! “The kitchens! Where do you think?”

“Right,” Bilbo blinked. “This way,” and he led the way past the Great Hall, down two flights of stairs, and through a hallway lined with barrels of pumpkin juice, until they reached the great portrait of fruit. The whole time, Dwalin remained a silent shadow of Bilbo’s steps – though that was not to say that the journey was peaceful.

Bilbo wondered if perhaps this was how sheep felt around sheepdogs – sure that the dog would not bite, but terrified into moving all the same. The heat from Dwalin’s glare pushed Bilbo to move faster than he ever had, and though Bilbo _knew_ the dwarf couldn't eviscerate him with one of the axes strapped to his back (That would be ridiculous! Terrifying, and perhaps a slight possibility, but ridiculous!), still they managed to reach the kitchens in record time. Bilbo tickled the pear and forced himself to not fidget. 

“I am a seventh-year hobbit,” he told himself firmly. “A Baggins. I will not lose my composure over a surly dwarf.”

 

* * *

 

Ten minutes later, Bilbo had thoroughly lost his composure over a surly dwarf.

“But you can’t eat _all_ of them!” he protested as Dwalin reached for yet another jar of biscuits. “You have to leave some for the feast!”

“Oh no, Master Dwalin must eat all that he wants!” Shouted the head cook, a squeaky elf named Daisy. True to the name, every inch of her clothes were covered in bright yellow flowers; even the ladle she waved in the air held a bright pattern. “We elves be making more all the time, sirs! We be getting you whatever the sirs would like!”

“I like biscuits,” Dwalin spoke through his mouthful, as if the liberal coating of crumbs in his beard and down his front didn’t signify. On cue, another plate appeared before him, hoisted by two elves and presenting a large pile of freshly-baked cinnamon treats.

The scowl lifted from the dwarf’s face, and Bilbo suspected that he would smile, were his mouth not stretched so around a dozen biscuits.

“Is this all Gandalf needed me to do?” Bilbo asked Dwalin for the fourth time. Just as before, he received no answer, though Dwalin finally seemed ready to move on from biscuits. He picked up a nearby jug of juice.

“Oh really now!” Bilbo exclaimed as the drink sloshed down Dwalin’s beard to splash on the floor. In a flash, the mess was cleaned by a passing elf, but it was the _thought_ of the mess which counted, Bilbo figured. “At least sit down, if you’re going to stuff your face!”

Perhaps Bilbo ought not to have said anything, as he himself stood by a dessert-laden counter, working through his third slice of spiced cake. (Though he ate like a Baggins: with a fork, and manners, and so was excused, thank you very much!)

Still, all the uncertainty and excitement and loud squeaky greetings from the house elves were giving Bilbo a headache, and so he jumped when a new, but familiar, voice piped up from behind.

“Ho now! Is this where you’ve been hiding, you rake?”

Professor Balin stood, arms spread wide, smiling in the doorway to the kitchens. His long beard, split as ever to curl at the ends, brushed the floor, as the old dwarf bowed lowly. “It’s good to see you again,” he came forward, laid a hand on Dwalin’s shoulder, accepted a cup of tea from a house elf with the other, and then slammed his own forehead right onto the taller dwarf’s without pause.

Bilbo yelped, but neither dwarf seemed to notice, Dwalin’s stony countenance falling away to an almost-happiness at Balin’s arrival. Together they talked, and Dwalin offered Balin a plate of biscuits, when Bilbo finally decided he had had enough.

“Professor Balin, excuse me,” he tried to say, but it seemed his voice couldn’t carry over the din. “I’m sorry, but do you suppose…” Still nothing. Bracing his headache, Bilbo filled his lungs to shout, “I’M SORRY –” but before he could explain what for, Professor Balin had raised an eyebrow.

“Apology accepted.”

“No no,” Bilbo sputtered, resisting the urge to rub his temples. “No, I mean, I’m sorry, but I have to leave. I’ve got classes, and it will be time for elevensies soon, and I really ought to get to the library as well.”

Both dwarves watched him expectantly, and Bilbo realized too late that they were waiting for him to keep to his word and leave. The frankness of dwarves! If he never saw another one of the incoming company – for indeed, Dwalin must have been the first – again, it would be too soon!

* * *

"Baggins!" Cried the Ravenclaw eagle's head when he approached to get his books for Potions. "When cupboards are empty of nothing but crumbs, when a feast has been had that gladdens no one, all has been eaten, nothing was spared, yet hunger persists for those who live there."

Bilbo, still fuming, snapped: "Worse than rats are dwarves in the kitchen!"

"Well, that's not quite what I had in mind." The eagle seemed taken aback, "but true all the same, I suppose," and it wisely allowed Bilbo to enter, only to call out to his retreating form: "Leave your bones on the bedroom mat, Mister Baggins!" Which seemed to be its way of entreating him to cheer up.

* * *

Bilbo did his best, but luck had left him. He could go nowhere that day to escape mention of the incoming company of dwarves. They were like a persistent fly, buzzing in his ear, distracting him all day from his work.

“I heard,” a Slytherin girl discussed loudly behind Bilbo during History of Magic. “That Professor Balin needed a substitute for this class because he’s busy fighting with the new dwarves.”

“They’re called dwarrows, Glin, really,” said the boy. “But you’re right. Two of them came into the dorm room this morning, while you were gone. Both good-looking, though the dark-haired one’s a bit of a dunce.”

“If you _don’t mind_ ,” Bilbo turned around to glare. “I’m trying to _listen_.”

They didn’t mind, it seemed, and Bilbo was forced to strain to hear the lecture on the Battle of Moria over descriptions of the two new dwarves.

* * *

In the library, Bilbo ran into three new dwarves, and only the manner-mindful Baggins within him kept his temper from going off. He had been desperate for a quiet place to practice his spellwork, but instead he’d bumped into two dwarves with tightly-braided hair, and a third with a style so bright and elaborate, it almost distracted Bilbo from the four small books vanishing up the dwarf’s sleeve.

“Put those back this instant!” Bilbo had scolded without thinking. The red-haired thief simply raised an eyebrow and grinned rakishly as the silver-haired dwarf with him turned with a look of thunder.

“What have you taken _now_ , Nori?”

"It's a library, brother! Books are _meant_ to be borrowed."

"From the _desk_ , with _permission_! Nori, really, this is the last straw. I thought that time with the merchant's daughter was bad enough, but now - "

At this point, the third dwarf, whose hair also looked quite ridiculous, pointed out cheerfully, "He had plenty of permission with the merchant's daughter, if my ears were working that night!"

"Bofur!" Several students looked up, disgruntled, as the two dwarves Nori and Bofur howled with laughter. The silver-haired dwarf's ears turned pink, and he spoke almost matronly to the other dwarf, "Now listen," but Bilbo did not hear the rest of what he had to say.

Perhaps his higher level classes would offer some sort of normalcy, as far as that went for Hogwarts? All he wanted was to get through the year quietly, without distractions! Yet it seemed that even Professor Alburn, Potions Master, would take part of the gossip. He had paused in his instructions to mention having met a dwarvish potions master of high-renown, Oin Groinson, who would be sitting in on their classes from time to time.

A second year had been so distracted by the change in subject matter - from curdled slugs to dwarves? - that she missed the pivotal addition of dragon's drool to her potion. It boiled over, a black and goopy mess, all over Bilbo’s book bag; and although it wasn’t truly their fault, Bilbo found himself blaming the dwarves for that as well. 

* * *

The only spot of quiet that Bilbo could find was nestled among the roots of the great oak, out in the courtyard. It was a slightly damp day, and Bilbo sighed at the thought of mud on his robes, but because of it, very few people were out and about. Drawing out his wand – Ash. Short and flexible, but strong and good for combative spells. The man who sold it to Bilbo had given the hobbit an odd look – Bilbo turned and pointed up to where he could see the window of Ravenclaw tower in the distance.

" _Accio cushion,_ " he demanded, and though he heard a distant shriek, a comfortably large sofa cushion came zooming out the window and around the castle turrets. With very few casualties - one incoming owl was knocked off its path, and Professor Rewosm had lost his hat - the cushion eventually came to settle on the ground where Bilbo wished to sit.

Pleased, Bilbo took his seat on the comfortable pillow, arranged his robes neatly, andpointed at the gorse bush beside him. “ _Flora Augmentarum_ ,” he said, with an upward-spiraling motion.

Following the pace of his wand, the bush slowly sprouted, branches growing and flowering bright yellow buds as if stretching after a long nap. Bilbo smiled, reversed the spiral, and watched as the bush settled back down.

Confident that the spell did in fact work, Bilbo focused again. This time, though, he spoke the words in his head. _Flora Augmentarum,_ he thought determinedly at the bush, to no avail. He sighed.Wordless magic gave him the most trouble, after all these years, and so Bilbo sat for many long minutes, waving his wand in deliberate circles and thinking at the bushes around him with varying results.

Several passersby crossed through the courtyard in this time, and once Hamfast came over to bring Bilbo lunch (for which he was again, extremely thankful) in exchange for a promise for future Charms lessons. Bilbo had just seemed to have gotten the dandelions around him to bloom a bit brighter – or had the sun simply come out from behind a cloud? – when he noticed a reoccurring peculiarity. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he watched a dwarf come round a corner, and told himself not to stare. Yes, this was the same dwarf that had caught Bilbo’s eyes five minutes before. Many dwarves were handsome by hobbit standards – with healthy hair and sturdy stout figures – but this one in particular looked more striking than any Bilbo had ever seen. His hair – and Bilbo was almost positive it was a “he,” though you could never be sure with dwarves – was long and black, and that which wasn’t braided back flowed becomingly over broad shoulders. The dwarf walked with regal purpose, with sure and confident strides, right past Bilbo’s tree.

Bilbo put down his wand, and waited.

Sure enough, ten minutes later, the same dwarf rounded the eastern bend; he looked around, caught Bilbo’s gaze, and promptly turned back the way he’d come.

Not half an hour later, Bilbo was only half-surprised to see him again, this time coming up from a completely different direction. Had he been down by the lake? The dwarf looked mildly frustrated, a frown setting in over his aristocratic nose, as he paused to look up at the sky.

With a flutter of nerves at his daring, Bilbo pushed to his feet, vanished the cushion and, with a self-conscious check for grass on his robes, he approached the strange dwarf.

“Excuse me,” he said once he’d drawn close. “You seem to be looking for something. Can I help you?”

Immediately, eyes blue and fierce as ice shot down to look at Bilbo with something like surprised disdain. Too late, Bilbo remembered that people often didn't hear hobbits coming, unless the hobbit in question wanted you to. It seemed that despite the dwarf's big ears - round like a doormouse, Bilbo thought - he hadn't caught on to Bilbo's approach at all. 

“Sorry,” Bilbo raised his hands. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

The dwarf said nothing, only looked down at Bilbo with his brows furrowed. Bilbo tried for a grin, but it felt more like an awkward grimace.

“It’s the feet,” he explained, holding up one large, neatly kept, foot for proof. “They may look heavy, but we hobbits are actually quite light on them!”

As far as jokes went, it was a poor one, but at it the dwarf’s confused seemed to clear. “A hobbit,” said the dwarf, voice deep and wondering. “So this is a hobbit.”

“Yes,” Bilbo couldn’t help the sarcasm that leaked into his tone. “’This’ is a hobbit. Do they not have many hobbits in Erebor, then?” The dwarf merely hummed an affirmative.

“I’m not surprised.” They stood in relative silence, Bilbo doing his best to ignore the dwarf’s obvious interest in his feet. “So, can I?” Bilbo finally asked.

“Can you what?”

Definitely the good-looking, slow one, then. “Can I help you?” Bilbo reiterated.

The dwarf seemed to be weighing his options, or perhaps simply admiring the castle’s turrets; but eventually he did say, “You may,” as if granting Bilbo a great favor.

Bilbo waited a beat. “And?”

“Where is the Great Hall?” The dwarf asked reluctantly. “I understood Hogwarts to be a labyrinth of a school, but I find it even more difficult to navigate than I thought.”

Ah. Well then. Resisting the urge to laugh, Bilbo pointed at the doors to their left. "Straight through here, and then two large wooden doors will be on your right. Those lead straight into the Great Hall.”

“Ah,” said the dwarf, looking at the door with suspicion. Bilbo couldn’t blame him – he’d seen the dwarf pass through that same door three times in a row, this past hour alone. All the same, the handsome dwarf inclined his head minutely. “My thanks for your service.”

Goodness. A regal figure indeed, with that long blue robe and dark cloak. Bilbo had half a mind to do something horribly Tookish, like offering the dwarf his arm to escort him directly to the hall (it truly was less than a minute’s walk from here); but thankfully the Ravenclaw within him saw the idiocy of such a gesture.

Instead, he left it at an “Anytime. My pleasure, really,” and walked back to his study spot. Before he reached the tree, he felt the hair rise on the nape of his neck, as if he were being watched. Curious, he turned back. The dwarf had not yet moved. Two doors he stood between, the one Bilbo had pointed to, and another just beside it. He looked first at the right, then at the left, and then back at Bilbo.

“The one on your left!”

Strangely enough, the dwarf grew visibly flustered, reddening and shifting from one foot to the other before shouting back, “On my left while facing you, or while facing the door?”

“What?” Bilbo held out his left hand, angling away from the door. Nope. Odd. “While facing the door, of course!”

This was the wrong thing to say. The dwarf snapped straight like an offended cat, and he stalked through the left door with his head high in the air before Bilbo could think to ask for his name.

“Well,” Bilbo thought blankly as the heavy door closed. “That was odd.”

All this talk of the Great Hall had Bilbo’s stomach grumbling – though truly, his stomach would have growled at anything, the Great Hall was just a fantastic excuse – and Bilbo walked to collect his things before making his own way to dinner.

Who knew? Perhaps there he could make amends with the lost dwarf! The thought cheered Bilbo for only a moment, before he remembered that he wanted nothing to do with the new dwarves, and anyway, it was unlikely that he would ever have the chance to talk to one of them again.

Good, Bilbo thought. Excellent.

Naturally, he was completely and utterly wrong.


	3. Mending Offenses

“Challenge for you, Baggins.” The eagle head said promisingly. Bilbo resisted the urge to sigh. It had been a very long and bothersome day, and the evening’s feast had not gone as well as he would have liked. Not for the first time, Bilbo thought longingly of the Shire, and of Bag End, and doors which opened exactly when you wanted them to, and not keep you from your bed with questions.

Still, the eagle always seemed to enjoy its puzzles – and Bilbo supposed it must be quite a dreary existence, only coming to life to ask questions to hurried students – and so Bilbo took a fortifying breath, clasped his hands together beneath his appallingly filthy robes, and waited.

As if for dramatic effect, the eagle paused. In the following silence, Bilbo could hear the high, sleepy noises of the nighttime outside the tower: owls crooned to each other softly in the Owlery not so far off, crickets filled the air with their trills, and over it all the loud din of the battle in the Great Hall could be heard – a muted roar of flying pans, cracking tables, and bellows of laughter.

The eagle, unperturbed by any such noise, opened its golden beak and said, “How many leaves on a shrivelfig tree?”

So much for humoring the eagle! Bilbo had heard this one before; and he remembered the smells of summer – heavy, warm, and green – falling through the open kitchen window; the drooping bluebells that nodded and swayed as Belladonna Baggins moved in the garden, keeping time as she sang _How many leaves on a shrivelfig tree? My darling heart, my own,_ and worked the earth.

“How many bright fish swim in the sea?” Bilbo finished the rhyme, his horrible evening swept away for a moment by the bittersweet memory of his mother. “Are you doing songs, now?”

“I ask the questions, little rabbit,” the eagle returned smartly, runes running down its back to shine open the doorway. “A good night to you. And might I recommend a bath, first thing?”

Scoffing, Bilbo pushed through the doorway, barely managing a polite “good evening” to the eagle as he passed. Inside, the domed ceiling of the Ravenclaw Commons had turned a deep husky blue, the stars winding through, here and there forming constellations, others taking the shape of old runes. It was late. The large sundial, where it sat surrounded by cushiony sofas of the perfect shape and mold for late-night reading, had turned to point accusingly at “past-curfew.”

Only a handful of Ravenclaws were still awake, among them Rosie Romas, Bilbo’s Muggleborn. “Are you alright, Mister Baggins?” She looked astonished, and Bilbo couldn’t blame her. With a grumble, he stalked past the sitting area towards his rooms (pausing to grab a plate of scones from the side table), where he flopped onto his bed without a thought.

Immediately, something below him squished, and the sugary smell of plums and pudding filled the air. Bilbo groaned. Now his blankets were ruined as well!

“Bebother and confusticate those dwarves!”

The only spot of luck to the evening had been in the timing – at least the dwarves had waited until the hobbits’ supper, when the rest of the school had retired to bed, to begin their riotous party. Who knew the reason: perhaps they had checked themselves in the presence of Professor Galadriel, or maybe they had felt too keenly the scrutiny of the rest of the school – students could not help but stare at the ten dwarves, dressed as if for battle, gathered closely together at the end of the Slytherin table. Bilbo’s dwarf – the lost dwarf, he meant, obviously – had sat among them, and Bilbo was half disappointed that he couldn’t catch his eye, and half relieved that the dwarf hadn’t looked up to see Bilbo’s ridiculous blush.

“Honestly,” Bilbo thought to himself as his eyes fell from admiring the dwarf’s regal profile, to his plate of roasted cauliflower. “Are you a Baggins or a Gamgee, blushing over a complete stranger like that? It’s not as if he’s the first attractive lad you’ve seen!”

The real reason, however, the dwarves had left the hobbits alone, was simply that they hadn’t seen the hobbits until the bigger folk had retired. Bilbo hadn’t been seated too far away from the Slytherin table – close enough to hear a fierce dwarf with a loud red beard and an ever louder voice demand: “A Hobbit? Here? They’re real? What’re they like, then?”

Bilbo had looked up just in time to see another dwarf with – good gracious – an axe-head embedded in his forehead, push the loud dwarf’s face to the table. An argument broke out, strange and guttural and in a language Bilbo did not understand, though at a word from Bilbo’s dwarf (the lost dwarf, the lost dwarf, he meant!), they all immediately switched back to English.

Still, the argument continued, and so heated and garbled it grew that Bilbo still understood none of it. Such a riot from their corner of the Great Hall rose that it soon drew the attention of the surrounding students, until finally a dwarf with curling braids stood, grabbed a boiled egg from the table’s center, and cried, “Watch me! BOMBUR!”

The hall fell silent at the shout, and all looked up to see the dwarf hurl the egg across the far length of the hall. It shot like a bullet, nearly lighting on fire as it bounced on a floating candle on its way to the oblivious feasting professor. Over tables it flew, and the entire place seemed to draw one horrified breath as the egg pelted down towards Professor Bombur; who quick as a wink raised his head from a baked potato, turned, and plop! The egg slid neatly as you please amidst crumbs and bites of bread.

The hall erupted with cheers, students clapping and roaring with laughter. It became a game: whatever leftovers couldn’t be cleaned from the plates of witches, wizards, and goblins soon flew through the air, charmed to aim towards Professor Bombur, who caught it all in his mouth without fail. One particularly mischevious Slytherin witch _Wingardium Leviosa'_ ed a helping of squash soup into the air, and Bilbo cried foul as the hot liquid flew like a undulating dragon towards the dwarf; but Professor Bombur could not be usurped, and he sipped the orange soup easily, with nary a drop falling to his braid.

Though their earlier argument had almost been forgotten, the dwarves did not fall back into inconspicuousness – rather the opposite. They easily matched the merriment in the hall; and even when the rest of the students finally retired for bed, still they feasted on.

“Oi Gloin!” One of the dwarves – blond, with a confident set to his full lips and a great mane of hair – pointed his chin in the direction of the hobbits. “There are your hobbits, I think!”

At the call, the hobbits in question looked up from their pushing together the Gryffindor and Hufflepuff tables; and they froze entirely to find the large company of dwarves coming to investigate like a clamoring cloud of armor and braids.

“Hobbits, hm? Well, bless me!” The dwarf with the hat grinned and introduced himself – “Bofur, of the Brothers ‘Ur, at your service!” – to Florinda Puddleglum. “Just look at the little fellas! They’re short enough to be dwarrowdams!”

“They’re short enough to be Fili!” laughed the youngest-looking of the bunch.

“And bald-faced enough to be _Kili_!” the blond dwarf returned hotly, and the resulting scuffle had more than one Hufflepuff first year squeaking with alarm.

“What are you doing, then?” Bilbo remembered this dwarf – Nori, the thief from the library! – and frowned distrustfully as he conjured a fresh tablecloth. Still, he flicked his wand to summon over some more chairs, and the dwarves easily made themselves at home.

And just in time, for Professors Balin, Ori, and Bombur came back into the hall, the latter’s eyes shining.

“Does this happen every night?” He asked eagerly. “This second feasting?”

Hamfast Gamgee seemed the least frazzled by all the commotion, and therefore appeared to have been elected as spokesperson for Hufflepuff. He stepped forward with friendly determination. “Of course! And you’re welcome to join us, sirs. More's the merrier, I always say!”

It was, in retrospect, a Very Bad Idea. The dwarves soon grew more rambunctious than ever, throwing what seemed to be a kind of reunion party. Balin sat next to Dwalin – who had with an almost proprietary air seated himself to Bilbo’s right – and the white-bearded professor received an extremely enthusiastic greeting.

“Well met Fundinson!” An elderly dwarf held a trumpet to his ear and gave a gamely, gap-toothed smile. “Been nigh on fifty years since last I saw ye!”

“Dori! Nori!” Professor Ori was shouting over the ruckus, trying to wave across the table to where – Bilbo assumed they were his brothers, based on the names – the two dwarves sat in serious conversation with the axe-headed dwarf.

Poor Professor Ori! He was so small and unassuming that even at his most assertive, the hulking shoulders of Balin and Dwalin concealed him entirely. “D-dori! Nori!” Ori stretched on his tip-toes, and Dwalin grunted, reached out one large hand to collar the scruff of Ori’s cardigan, and lifted the younger dwarf clean off the floor!

Casually, Dwalin held out Professor Ori, who dangled from his hand over the table like a wool-covered kitten, and Dori and Nori both cried out happily, “Ori! There you are lad!” and easily collected their brother. The three dwarves fell into an embrace, matched only by that of Bofur, Bombur, and “Bifur stop! You’ll squeeze him til he pops!” the axe-headed dwarf.

So many dwarves! And such a loud bunch, as well! Bilbo yearned for his quiet bed, and thought to finish his treacle tart quickly and safely before making an early night of it. Beneath the din of curious dwarves poking at increasingly-irritated hobbits, Bilbo heard Dwalin growl to Professor Balin, “Have ye found it yet, then?” But what he meant, Bilbo did not know, for at the same time the brown-haired Kili said loudly, “Uncle! Which of these little hobbits is the one who – ”

“KILI!” Growled Bilbo’s dwarf loudly. “Stay silent!”

“Yes, Kili,” teased Fili. “You might embarrass uncle, asking such things. Just look for the one with the furriest feet, and the captiva – URG!”

Bilbo’s dwarf, scowl dark as the storm-covered ceiling above them, had shoved Fili face-first into the nearest bowl to silence him. The blond dwarf came up, sputtering and blinking pudding from his eyes, and Kili roared with glee.

Fili answered with a well-aimed plate of creamed corn. It hit Kili square across the jaw, and the collateral damage splattered all over Lobelia Sackville-Baggins’ proudly-pressed robes.

Silence dropped over the tables like a wet blanket. Even the dwarves seemed to pick up on the sense of danger, as Lobelia turned a malicious shade of red.

“Here there, little Miss,” Bofur the dwarf held a ripped corner from his ratty jacket over the table. “Use this.”

Whether or not this made things worse – for truly the jacket bit looked remarkably filthy – or whether Lobelia had simply not heard him over her building rage; who could know? Lobelia wiped her face free of gravy before rising like a fury in her seat. Golden corn kernels flew from her lap like sparks from a hero in a ballad.

“Hamfast!” She shouted. The hobbit in question looked up with no small amount of terror. Lobelia held out a hand, and narrowed her eyes threateningly at Fili, who had turned the anxious color of a slug. “Pass me the goulash! NOW”

It all went to hell after that.

With stunning alacrity, the dwarves rallied. Even Professor Ori had been enthusiastic at first. He'd ducked flying plates of cheese and pies to grab a bowl of grapes, managing to load five into a slingshot before Dori had shouted, “ORI! You can’t throw food at your _students_!” Disheartened, Professor Ori resigned himself to dodging projectiles and shouting out advice to dwarf and hobbit alike.

“Five points to Gryffinder, Nimsy! Excellent aim!”

Professor Bombur, as well, chose not to take up arms, for the same reason as much of the surrounding hobbits: it wouldn’t do to waste food. The other dwarves had no such compunction – they laughed and sang and ate and hurled pies through the air with equal vigor.

The hobbits were more divided, though the Gryffindors took to the battle eagerly enough. Best of them all were the Tooks and Brandybucks, who stood like warriors amidst flying plates and mashed potatoes, arming themselves with great serving trays like shields.

However, most of the rest were too busy being appalled at the mess, waste, and disreputable behavior; they took to fretting and attempted peacemaking, at least, until they themselves became casualties. There was only so much propriety a hobbit could uphold, when their embroidery or well-kept clothes were sullied; and the dwarves soon learned that even the most tender-bellied of hobbits had fangs.

Bilbo witnessed this change firsthand, as he and Hamfast both tried to convince a younger dwarf, Fili-or-Kili, to come to his senses. The dwarf in question had claimed the table as a type of battlement; high above the heads of the others he stood, kicking plate after re-appearing plate in all directions, and snatching lines of sausages from the air as they flew.

“Now now,” Hamfast said reasonably, using the same voice as when he soothed startled griffins in Care of Magical Creatures. “There’s no need for such noise. Come on down. Only, if you’re not careful, the professors will hear and we’ll be in all sorts of trouble. That’s the ticket. Put down the tomatoes and we’ll - ”

Out of nowhere, a full chocolate cake smacked across Hamfast’s face, hard and quick enough to give whiplash. Bilbo watched in horror as gentle Hamfast turned red beneath the frosting, raised his narrowed eyes, and snatched up a baguette and pudding bowl.

“Right!” Hamfast Gamgee shouted out a battle-cry, brandishing the baguette and bowl like a sword and shield. With a snarl, he swore: “ _Put down the tomatoes, or I’ll have you!_ "

Bilbo slunk away from the table just as Hamfast swung, the bread slapping across Fili-or-Kili’s face hard enough to send the dwarf tumbling to the floor with a roar of laughter. Once again, Bilbo’s hand twitched for his wand, but he stopped himself just in time. It wouldn’t do him any good – Melody Proudfoot had been the first and last to attempt a spell. But she hadn’t even pulled her wand fully from her robes before Gloin had shouted “ _FOUL!_ "

Melody had been promptly buried in an onslaught from all sides of garlic-sautéed spinach before she could cast an Immobulus charm. No one had been brave enough to try again, after that.

Luckily, Bilbo was not a Ravenclaw for nothing.

Wandless magic was difficult, and wordless magic even more so, but Bilbo had studied enough to throw up a weak Shield Charm, so long as he kept up constant concentration. Still, he couldn’t help but squeak in fright when a turkey leg the size of his waist came hurtling his way. Then, who should snatch the leg out of the air but Dwalin Fundinson, who looked back at Bilbo like a captain might a soldier. “Look alive, Master Baggins!” he growled, then – “ _Du Bekâr_!” – he hurled the leg back across the room. It crashed into Oin’s ear trumpet with astonishing accuracy, and the dwarves all howled with mirth.

“Oh dear,” Bilbo thought, backing up even further. “Hamfast was right! It’s only a matter of time before a professor hears all this! We’ll get caught for sure, and I don’t think I could survive a week of detention with Beorn!”

But – oh! He’d forgotten about Professor Balin! The old dwarf wasn’t head of the Ravenclaw House for nothing. He would know what to do, or at least he could vouch for Bilbo’s innocence in the whole mess. Ducking around a yodeling Sackville, who held a tray of scones high above their head as they ran about the room, Bilbo looked around and spied Professor Balin.

The old dwarf had taken company with Bilbo’s lost dwarf, and the two sat in deep conversation next to the Great Hall doors. Neither had engaged in the battle, though an ambitious bread roll or two rolled about their feet. Still chanting his Shield Charm silently, Bilbo crept towards them as quietly as a hobbit knew how.

This turned out to be very quietly indeed. Hobbits are hard to catch even when they are not actively trying to sneak, and Bilbo moved so silently that neither dwarf noticed his approach, and so Bilbo caught the end of their conversation.

He wished he hadn’t.

“…may be the best, after all,” Professor Balin said in a diplomatic tone. His white hair was a stark contrast to the pitch black of Bilbo’s dwarf, a contrast matched by their expressions: Balin’s the picture of placating reason, and the other’s a querulous stone. “Perhaps you should speak with one, Thorin.”

The dwarf in question – Thorin, apparently – scoffed. “Not one hobbit could be so worthy. They are too soft, Balin, too unsuitable. Surely you must see this.”

Unworthy, a hobbit? Bilbo frowned. Soft? _Unsuitable_? Goodness, what a high-and-mighty dwarf!

“I could recommend one in particular,” Balin continued before Bilbo could interject in defense of his own people. “A young Mister Bilbo Baggins. He’s of my own house, and really quite clever; and didn’t you mention having acquainted yourself with a young hobbit wearing blue robes? That would be Mister Baggins himself, I’m quite certain. Place down your pride, and go to speak with him at your first opportunity, that’s what I would suggest.”

“That,” Thorin said, blue eyes narrowed and stern. “I will not do.” His voice rolled like thunder, ominous and deep. Bilbo had never heard its like before, and may have appreciated the sound, if not for the foul words it carried. “I have told you before, Balin: I have no use for weak-spirited Halflings who know nothing of the real world. Better to leave them to their ignorance, their flower charms and cushions, than to trust them with anything of import. Your Mister Baggins is just as useless as the rest of his kind, and I will not waste my time with him.”

“ _Well_ ,” Bilbo said tartly, and took no small amount of vindictive pleasure in the startled turn of both dwarves. Thorin in particular paled most satisfyingly. “I suppose _Mister Baggins_ will be taking his leave then, and the next time you get lost finding your way out of a wet paper bag, some other soft and useless hobbit can help you!”

“Now, Mister Baggins, wait a moment – ”

“Thank you Professor Balin,” Bilbo said proudly. “Good evening.” And perhaps it could still have been, had not at the very moment a large plum cobbler pelted Bilbo. _Smack!_ Bilbo was almost knocked clear off his feet! He stood n shock, drenched head-to-undignified-foot in sugar, sauce, mushy fruit. Globules of plum ran stickily down his face and over his robes; and a strangled noise came from either Balin or Thorin.

Bilbo shook, half with rage and the other half with horrible embarrassment. Oh, how he wished he could Disapparate on the spot! Instead he looked up, nodding stiffly to excuse himself before marching out of the hall. The walk back to the dorms was miserable and uncomfortable. Bilbo shed cobbler with every step, and did his best to ignore the giggles of the whispering portraits and suits of armor.

Even now, miserable in his bed, Bilbo’s ears rang with the laughter of the dwarves and the unkind words of Thorin, who had seemed at first to be a not-so-bad person. “Unworthy, useless, and weak-spirited indeed!” How Bilbo must have looked, his curls plastered and purple, and his robes a disarray! His heart was low in his belly, and it took many unhappy hours before Bilbo fell asleep with the renewed resolution to have nothing to do with dwarves fresh in his mind.

 

* * *

 

For the first time in his long occupancy of Hogwarts, Bilbo Baggins skipped breakfast. He couldn’t bear the thought of running into the dwarves again, and he loathed to see the mess of the Great Hall. Instead he polished off half of the plate of scones from the night before, drank four cups of tea by the Commons’ fireplace, and gathered his things for class: Earth Magic, with Professor Bombur, this morning. Bilbo headed down to the gardens.

Open, vast, and filled with all things growing and green, the gardens reminded Bilbo very strongly of The Shire. They were responsible for a great deal of the crops used by the elves in their cooking, as well as the foundation for learning rudimentary Earth Magic. Rows upon rows of bulbous squash and hairy stalks of corn lined the field, and every few yards or so sat a large mound of rich soil. Around these, Professor Bombur had the class gather.

A dwarf of few words, Professor Bombur barely introduced himself to the class before beginning his lecture.

“Bombur, of the Brother's 'Ur, from the Blue Mountains. Glad to meet you. Now, there’s two types of Earth Magic we’ll be learning this year,” he said in a very straightforward, but soft, voice. “Foundational, which is first, and then later we’ll look at Developmental. Who can tell me the difference?”

Many hobbits raised their hands, but a bright-eyed Slytherin girl was the one who piped up: “Foundational magic is where you move stones and rocks about – making ‘em grow and change shape and whatnot. And Developmental is the magic where you can speed up the growth of living things, like plants and stuff, inside the earth.”

Professor Bombur nodded, awarded five points to Slytherin, and called everyone’s attention.

“So," he said. "Best place to start is to find out where your strengths and weakness are, so everyone gather round here.” He knelt down in front of the soil mound. “This is my brother's specialty - we’ll be moving around the rocks inside the dirt. Now each of these piles has rocks scattered through all of ‘em. However many you pull out – without wands or spells! – is how many points extra you’ll get on your essay tomorrow. Two to a pile, then, like this,” and he shoved his large hands into the dirt like two great shovels.

“Trick is to try and feel for the rocks with your palms,” Professor Bombur said as the earth around his hands began to shift. “The rest of the dirt is smooth and soft. Reach past it, and when it feels like you’re getting stuck, then draw out.” He pulled back, and in each of his hands lay four egg-shaped stones. “Now you.”

The hobbits of the class took to the task like a fish to water. Bilbo himself soon had no less than seven large rocks at his side, and was reaching for another, when Professor Bombur came to sit beside him.

“Good work,” he said, not bothering to hide his surprise. “No idea hobbits had a knack for this kind of thing. Dwarf work,” he explained. “Moving about stones, carving the earth and such. This is how we mine for jewels and build our fortresses, you see. Didn’t think hobbits had much use for them.”

“No, I don’t suppose we do,” Bilbo’s palms itched, and he drew out two more rocks from the earth. “But we build our own smials in the ground, and every hobbitling worth their curl knows how to till the earth for a good harvest before they come to Hogwarts.”

Professor Bombur nodded and looked almost mournfully at the large piles of stones beside the many hobbits; those witches, wizards, and goblins who had shared a dirt mound with a hobbit sat sour-faced and discouraged next to their own paltry pull, and Professor Bombur scratched at his chins and thought, “I’ll have to plan ahead for hobbits, then, I suppose.”

“I wish you the best of luck in that endeavor, Bombur, though you may find it fruitless.” Bilbo recognized the voice, though he couldn’t believe his ill luck until he turned around to see Thorin, with his ever-present frown and thick blue travel cloak, standing behind them. “There is no planning ahead for hobbits, I’ve found. They’ll manage to sneak their way past any precautions, even into private conversations, it seems.”

Bilbo flushed, and immediately Thorin looked vaguely uncomfortable. He shifted on his feet for a moment before addressing Professor Bombur again. “I thought you said your class would be easy to find, Bombur.”

“Sorry, sir,” Professor Bombur said, and then turned red to match his beard at Bilbo’s sharp glance. Sir? But Thorin was just a student! “Ah, that is, no need to worry. We’re only working on basic foundations this class – Mister Baggins can catch you up.” He bustled away quickly to a help a pair of squabbling goblins, leaving Bilbo looking up at a Thorin determined not to meet his gaze.

“Anything interesting up there?” Bilbo barked when Thorin continued to stare at the cloudy sky. “Or do they not have clouds in Erebor, along with manners?”

Perhaps that was too harsh, but it did make Thorin’s eyes snap down to meet Bilbo’s. The dwarf scowled and kneeled to the ground. "Well?" He raised an impervious eyebrow. "Bombur said you would instruct me?" How he managed to still to look regal with the dirt round his knees, Bilbo had no idea.

“Hm.” Bilbo had not forgotten Thorin’s unkind words the night before, and though he dearly wished to say something biting and clever – _sorry, my spirit is too weak for such hard work_ – his mother and father both would have been appalled at his lack of hospitality; and Thorin almost looked contrite, if Bilbo squinted. “Yes, well. Foundational magic. We’re pulling stones from the earth. Like this.”

The earth shifted around his hands, as if the rocks were late sleepers, kicking off their covers. It didn’t take long, and Bilbo easily pulled out three stones to hand to Thorin. The dwarf accepted them with surprise.

“You work Earthen magic,” he said, brows high. “I had heard that Halflings were only skilled in charm work – hearth charms, particularly.”

Bilbo bristled. “Well, if your source was the same as that which made you think that _Halfling_ was a polite form of address, then I’m not surprised it’s wrong.”

The stones dropped from Thorin’s hand with a thunk. Bilbo looked to see Thorin glaring at the ground so fiercely, he wouldn’t be surprised to see the dirt cower.

“I…owe you an apology for the evening prior,” Thorin’s deep voice went slowly, forming the words with care as if unsure of their correct pronunciation. “Both for the behavior of my kin, and that of my own. The company has been chastened, and instructed on the proper behavior suited for your halls. Erebor feasts are much livelier than those of Hogwarts, we have come to learn.”

Despite himself, Bilbo felt a smile tug the corners of his mouth. “Did you lot get a very bad detention, then?”

“Balin sentenced us to working the dungeons, upon your departure.” Thorin almost looked pleased, and he easily sent the stones which Bilbo had pulled from the mound back into the earth. Without dirtying his hands, he held his palms just above the soil: rocks popped out like daisies, and even the pile of stones by Bilbo’s side began to roll towards Thorin. Why, he was even better at this than Professor Bombur!

“In that way, we shall account for our behavior at the feast.” Again, Thorin addressed his knees, though Bilbo noticed his gaze continued to flick over at Bilbo’s feet. “Now I must account for my own. In defense of myself, I would have you know that you entered into a part of the conversation which presented Balin and I unjustly.”

“Oh?” The class was almost over – Professor Bombur was walking around with a plate of cheese, casually eating wheel after wheel as he checked the students’ progress. Thorin flexed his hands.

“I do not know much of hobbits,” he confessed. “In Erebor they are the things of myth; creatures in faery stories, no more. My knowledge is gleaned from old superstitions and exaggerated histories. Still, correct my assumption, if hobbits are not inclined towards the dangerous, or the adventurous.”

What a funny way of admitting that one was wrong! Was this an apology? “We’re not so clear-cut as that,” Bilbo answered hotly. “It would depend fully on the hobbit in question.”

“You then,” Thorin said, and Bilbo fought to not quail at the sudden intensity. “Would you flee at the first sight of danger, or would you have the courage to help a creature in need, at risk to yourself?”

“W-well, I,” Bilbo dithered, and then, determined to not be soft, replied: “Yes, yes of course I would! I may not be a Gryffindor, but us Ravenclaws are no strangers to brave deeds!”

“Prove it, then.” With a grand sweeping of his cloak, Thorin rose to his feet, the beads in his hair glinting palely in the dim light. “Come to the library after curfew, and we will see how brave hobbits can be.”

“I-I will!” Already Bilbo was kicking himself. Walking about after curfew? Odd meetings with even odder dwarves? Lobelia was right – he was far too Tookish by half, and like to get worse, if this kind of behavior continued! He ought to have taken it back, changed his mind, but Thorin had already nodded imperiously.

“Very well. You will tell no one,” the dwarf commanded, and without even waiting to be dismissed, he strode from the gardens towards the castle gates. Bilbo wondered if he even had this class at all, or if he’d come simply to get Bilbo to agree to this ridiculous dare. But _why_? Bilbo couldn’t think of a reason, only he had the darkest suspicion that he'd been soundly tricked.

And that was what settled it, really. For while Gryffindors were brave and Hufflepuffs dangerous when riled, a Ravenclaw could never leave a mystery unsolved. Bilbo Baggins would go to the library tonight, if only to sate his own curiosity. And if Professor Bombur dithered a bit when Thorin left, before whispering to Bilbo that he needn’t bother with the essay assignment at all – he’d get full marks – Bilbo only added it to the day’s growing list of strange occurrences.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Preview for next chapter: "Burglary?" Bilbo whirled to scowl accusatorily at Thorin. "You never said anything about burglary!"


	4. Curses in the Dark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all you wonderful readers! Your feedback and comments mean so much, and make writing this story even more rewarding! Next installment will be up soon! In the meantime, I hope you all enjoy this chapter. Thanks for reading!

Firelight flickered strange and curling shadows over the corridor’s stone walls. To Bilbo, crouched behind one of the tall columns of the library’s locked and barred entrance, it seemed that even the moon and stars had abandoned the hour.

Logically, he recognized that any light from the night sky had been blocked by clouds and closed windows, but the thought brought him little comfort; and again he wondered at his situation. What would Hamfast say? “I told you so, didn’t I, Bilbo? You Ravenclaws and your confounded curiosity! It’ll get you into trouble someday!”

And sure enough, here Bilbo was, out past curfew and eyeing the heavily-spelled-against-trespassers archway against all his common sense. Two tall pillars, so tall and straight they looked like old trees sprouted from the very stone, guarded the entrance; impossibly high even to the tallest of wizards, poor Bilbo had to crane his neck completely backwards just to see the top of the columns.

Their work was lovely – obviously dwarven – bursting into Corinthian design only to end in a platform on which perched two stone gargoyles. They watched over their edges with blank, predatory eyes. Once, in Bilbo’s second year, a Gryffindor wizard had tried to sneak out with a book from the Restricted Section – the instant he’d reached the columns, a deathly screech had filled the air, and the boy had been swooped up in the claws of a gargoyle where he’d been deposited, hanging from a column, until a furious librarian released him five hours later.

The memory was a terrible one now, for while the guardians were as still and lifeless as could be, one had crouched, claws over edge, looking down as if to lunge at Bilbo should he take another step closer to the locked library. Under its gaze, Bilbo felt like a mouse at the foot of a pantry door.

He shuddered. “I knew those dwarves would be nothing but trouble! And me, here without anyone knowing where I am!” Perhaps he had not thought this through very well at all. Some Ravenclaw! Not for the first time, he cursed his Tookish curiosity.

Above him, the gargoyle’s grin seemed to widen, and Bilbo had just convinced himself to give it all up as a terrible idea when an approaching clamor broke the silence.

“Hush Kili!” hissed a dwarf, the low baritone buzzing and bouncing loudly off the stone walls over the clumps and stumbles of large booted feet.

The reply – “Then tell Fili to not trod on my cloak!” – was even louder. And then another voice actually _shouted_ over the both of them:

“ _What’d he say? We almost there?_ ”

“Shh!”

“Shh yourself!”

“If you’re not quiet, everyone will hear us!”

“ _Make_ me!” Bilbo rubbed at his temples with a groan.

From his hiding place, he could see six dwarves tumble round the corner. Dwalin, he recognized immediately: even without his knuckle-dusters and armor, the dwarf was large and imposing. And so grave! He cast an eye over the hall, lingering on the shadows where Bilbo knelt, before taking up a guardsman’s stance at the end of the group, crossing his bulky arms and looking into the darkness with ready solemnity.

The eldest dwarf Bilbo had personally never met, but he had read “Potions, Poisons, and Portents” enough times to recognize Oin Groinson, whose distinguished grey braids looked almost comical paired with his ear trumpet.

At his right and left stood Fili and Kili, both looking very young with their hair tied back in tails, matching looks of anticipation brightening their eyes. In particular, they looked adoringly at Thorin, whose blue cloak stood out against the blacks of his company; but Thorin paid them little mind. He glared at the pillars, with the steadfast determination of a cat, as if to say _I am going to pass through. You are welcome to try and stop me_.

But it was the sixth dwarf who took Bilbo’s attention: small and slight, with a braid of red down his back, Bilbo almost didn’t recognize Nori without his outlandish pointed hairstyle. Frown heavy and eyes rolled heavenward, the dwarf looked remarkably annoyed. Then Kili – who had been poking at an old suit of armor – gave a startled yelp, and a clatter of iron against rock followed.

Like a horse twitching in irritation away from a fly, Nori flinched and shaded his eyes out of exasperation. After a moment, during which both Fili and Kili loudly righted the armor with shouts and barks of laughter, Nori moved his hand to give Thorin a pointed look. Then, with a smirk, his eyes zeroed on Bilbo’s hiding place.

“Where’s the hobbit, then?” Kili asked, still wrestling with the armor, and Bilbo found his nerves completely overridden by exasperation.

“Really,” he stepped out with his hands on his hips, enjoying the look of surprise on Fili, Kili, Oin, and Thorin’s faces. “You may as well be an entire herd of Oliphaunts! You’re going to wake the entire castle, at this rate!”

“I know it,” drawled Nori. “But you try leading this lot around and keeping ‘em quiet! I told you, Thorin, when breaking-to-enter, more is not merrier.”

He winked, as if sharing a joke with Bilbo, and then again rolled his eyes when Fili cried, “We’re not _that_ loud!”

Thorin did not answer, and Bilbo found himself once again feeling sized-up and found wanting by the dwarf. His eyes were narrowed, and a line creased his brow as he frowned, but his voice when he spoke was kind enough. “You came.”

“Well,” Bilbo fiddled with the hem of his sleeve, and found himself wishing he had brushed the curls on his feet. “I said I would, wouldn’t I?”

“So you’ve agreed then?” Kili, interest in the old armor abandoned, bounded forward, black hood falling back to reveal his boyishly handsome face. His eyes, though wide and merry, were sharp on Bilbo’s own, and already bits of his wild brown hair had escaped the ponytail. All in all, he reminded Bilbo of an eager, undeniably-adorable niffler. “So you’re to be our burglar!” He smiled, all teeth. “Kili, son of Floi, at your service!” He bowed.

“Bilbo son of Bungo at you own – wait.” Bilbo withdrew his hand from an enthusiastic handshake. “Sorry, what? Burglar? I beg your pardon?”

“Such a serious face!” laughed the shorter one, Fili. “What my brother is saying,” he soothed. “Is that we’re pleased to make your acquaintance. I am Fili, first of Floi, at your service.”

“Yes, thank you. But no,” Bilbo insisted. “He said ‘burglar.’ What burglar – ”

“And this is Oin, son of Gloin, Dwalin son of Fundin, and Nori of the Brother’s Ri. And of course you’ve already met my uncle, Thorin.”

“Pleased to meet you all, I’m sure. What _burglar_?”

“What’d he say?” Oin yelled suddenly, startling them all. Distracted, Bilbo hissed:

“Really, sir! Keep it down, or you’ll bring a professor running!”

“Nah,” dismissed Nori as he bounced on his heels, looking up with interest at the watching gargoyles above them. “Balin, Ori, and Bombur are the patrolling professors tonight. They’ll keep the halls clear for us.”

Bilbo gawped. Just what had he gotten himself into? He had thought this whole thing had been nothing more than a dare, a show of bravery to a hot-headed dwarf (with lovely blue eyes and pretty hair, sure, but that was beside the point!). And yet, there were Hogwarts professors involved in the whole thing as well???

Bilbo hardly knew what to think, though he didn’t have much of a chance to do anything, because Nori suddenly walked up to the pillars, calm as could be.

“What are you doing?” Bilbo shooed him away. “Don’t touch them! It’s after hours! You’ll set off the alarm!”

“He makes funny faces, doesn’t he?” Kili said in aside to Fili.

“I like how his nose scrunches. What do you think, uncle?”

What Thorin thought of Bilbo’s face – a conversation Bilbo was determined to ignore with as much dignity as possible – went unsaid. For at that moment, Nori slithered his sleeve out of Bilbo’s hold with a twist, and again approached the pillars. Brandishing his wand (and where had that been? Bilbo could have sworn the dwarf hadn’t been holding anything just a moment ago!), Nori whispered “ _BinbayHudnel._ ”

The hallway glowed with a faint red light. One by one, runes of various shapes and sizes flickered on the pillars’ stonework. As quickly as they twirled through the air, Nori moved his wand as if to erase them, and away they went.

Silence fell amongst the dwarves, and even Bilbo watched with horrified fascination as Nori tested – tracing with his fingers, his wand, muttering spells softly, and even _licking_ – the air around the column.

“Um,” Bilbo leaned back and said in aside to Thorin. “What is he doing?”

“Unraveling spells,” Thorin smirked and looked at Dwalin, who appeared torn between disapproval and amusement as he watched Nori work. “Nori is somewhat of a specialist, you see.”

“Specialist?” Bilbo asked, voice faint. “What in?”

“Oh, crime, mostly,” Nori chirped as he casually erased a rune Bilbo was almost certain meant ‘disembowelment’. “Occasional misdemeanors, reconnaissance, that sort of thing. All of the Brother’s Ri are skilled handsmen. Dori tinkers, Ori knits and writes, and I – hah!” The pillar suddenly glowed white, before dulling to grey. “Child’s play!’

Bilbo’s stomach dropped, his fears confirmed. “You are _breaking into the library?_ You are breaking into the library!” He scrabbled at the sleeves of the dwarves as, one by one, they walked casual-as-you-please past the guardian pillars. “Absolutely not! I’m getting a professor, and you’re going back to – to wherever it is that you’re sleeping while you’re here at Hogwarts, and then I’m going _back to bed_ , because this is ridiculous and against the rules and – hey!”

Dwalin had seized Bilbo’s collar, just as the other evening with Professor Ori, and had lifted the hobbit clean off his furry feet as if he weighed nothing at all. Doing his best to stifle an indignant squawk, and failing if the snorts of the other dwarves were any indication, Bilbo had no choice but to go along quietly as he was carried over the threshold of the doorway.

His neck prickled. Craning to look over his shoulder, Bilbo glanced up towards the gargoyle and felt his stomach drop. Caught mid-lunge, its ugly features twisted in a snarl, the gargoyle had turned from its outward-facing position, and now watched the company walk open the library doors with blank eyes.   

Yet, somehow, they made it inside without being ripped to shreds by stone claws. The heavy wooden doors shut behind them, blocking the view of the hall, and despite the circumstances, Bilbo relaxed. If there were any place in Hogwarts that Bilbo Baggins loved more than the Great Hall (and, by proxy, the kitchens), it had to be the library. Even in the late hour, it was magnificent – high arching ceilings of bright green, accented with whites and gold, walls lined with books and tomes and staircases to reach them. The smells of worn paper and ink and leather reminded Bilbo of late nights spent studying or reading for pleasure, and he allowed himself a brief moment of calm before coming back to himself.

“Excuse me!” he looked up at Dwalin. “I _can_ walk, you know.”

“Aye,” the great dwarf agreed readily, though he did not relinquish his grip on Bilbo’s collar. “But until I’m certain you won’t be walking the wrong way – how’d you say? ‘getting a professor and going back to bed?’ – you’ll not be going anywhere.”

This was just too much! “Now see here – ”

“Dwalin,” Thorin interrupted, mouth curling at the corner. “Put the hobbit down.”

Lowered carefully back to his own two feet, Bilbo sniffed and straightened his robes. No one paid attention to his regaining his dignity. They were all taking their turns congratulating Nori, Oin in particular very interested in the spells the thief had used on the pillar. Dwalin had just passed a coin purse over with a rueful grin, which Nori mirrored as he twirled the purse strings smartly round his fingers, when Thorin spoke up.

“Do you know where it is?”

Nori nodded. “Ori hasn’t been wasting his time here, you know. It’s this way.”

“Now wait just one minute!” Bilbo, now in the sheltered safety of the library – which had been Muffliato’ed within an inch of its life to block sound from the outside – felt secure in shouting. And so shout he did, and his mother would have been proud at how he didn’t quail in the slightest beneath the sudden intense stares of the (apparently criminal) dwarves.

“I’m not going one more step,” he took out his wand to point at Dwalin, who had moved to pick him up again. “Until you tell me what is going on here, and what I’m _doing_ here!” At the sight of his wand, Dwalin stopped, though he did not retreat. Instead he stood and cracked his knuckles – the runes painted across them glowed faintly.

To Thorin, who almost looked to be smiling until Bilbo glared over at him, Bilbo accused: “You never said anything about _burglaring_!”

“A misnomer,” Thorin shook his head, side-eyeing Kili where the younger dwarf was whispering into a grinning Fili’s ear. “Kili misspoke. For how can there be burglary when you would simply be returning unto us that which is ours by right?”

Bilbo wanted to scoff – a likely excuse! – and the Baggins within him yearned to cast the Patronus charm and alert a professor, but Thorin’s deep voice had caught and held his attention like a fish in a net. There was a conviction, a passion, in what Thorin was saying that stilled Bilbo’s tongue, and made him wait to hear what the dwarf had to say.

Thorin turned, his dark hair swinging round his shoulders like a curtain as he gestured to the tall, floating book stacks. “Within the records of your school lies an artifact, created by a great king of our people. It is this which we seek. For years we have thought it destroyed, or lost forever, but at last it has been discovered. To have it so close within our reach – could we leave such a cultural treasure to myth? An ancient dwarven artifact, forgotten and gathering dust in the archives of Hogwarts?” He turned his gaze to Bilbo, and Bilbo was trapped by the blue fire in Thorin’s eyes. “You spoke of a willingness to help one in need. Did you speak truly, or will you leave us?”

“Well!” thought Bilbo rather breathlessly. “He certainly has a penchant for drama!” Out loud, he said: “Th-that depends on what exactly it is you want me to do.”

“Here,” Nori interrupted to seize Bilbo’s hand. “Instead of talking pretty all night, let’s just _show you_ ,” and away they went.

Thorin frowned mightily, and followed closely behind – the rest of the company beside him as they walked through the library. He must have had a practiced speech prepared, Bilbo thought, to be so upset at not having the chance to give it. What a strange dwarf indeed!

Naturally, as both a Ravenclaw and a Baggins of great scholarship, Bilbo was very familiar with every nook and cranny hidden within the Hogwarts Library. Yet even he could not understand why Nori was heading – not to the Restricted Section, as Bilbo had originally suspected – but towards an old trophy case of little renown.

It, Bilbo did not know so intimately. Tucked back in a corner between the “Dreadfully Dull” and “Mostly Accurate” History sections, the case hardly lived up to its own name. It was dusty, and small – having once been a mere desk before its top was sawed off and replaced with a glass lid. Even the laid parchment – a poorly-labeled geography of a mountain range – was old and peeling where it served as a backdrop for the display: fifty large gold galleons. They were evidently a noteworthy coin collection, but Bilbo had never seen their worth.

The same could not be said for the dwarves. They crowded round the small desk boisterously, Fili and Kili both fighting Dwalin for the best spot.

“It’s not like you can’t just see over us anyway, Mister Dwalin. You’re huge!”

“Yes, and we’ve more a right to see it anyway, after all!”

This brought Bilbo back to his senses. “You none of you have the right to look at it!” he said hotly, only stammering a little bit when six large, incredulous dwarves looked at him. “I- I mean, _this old thing_?” He nudged a corner leg with his toe, and the whole desk wobbled precariously. “You could have come to see it whenever you wanted, during _regular library hours!_ ”

“Aye and tell me, Mister Baggins,” Fili smirked and threw an arm round Bilbo’s shoulders. “What’s the library’s policy on the stealing of precious artifacts?”

“Yes,” pitched in Kili, another arm slinging to join Fili’s. Bilbo ‘oof’ed under the weight. “Please tell us the appropriate library hours for burglary. We’re all ears.”

Bilbo sorely wished to tell them off, and indeed he had already prepared a retort along the lines of “all ears” (for both arrogant brothers had ears to match their uncles: large and round like tea cup plates); but before he could say so, Thorin broke in.

“Fili, Kili,” he snapped. “Let go of the hobbit.”

To Bilbo, Thorin said, “It is not _stealing_ ,” as if Bilbo had been inexcusably rude to suggest so (though it had been Fili who’d said it, not him! Bilbo thought indignantly). “We are simply reclaiming what is rightfully ours.”

“Tried that line before, once,” Nori chuckled from where he peered like polecat over the desk. “Didn’t work so well then. Maybe I don’t have the charisma to pull it off.” He looked up at Dwalin as he said this and – Bilbo gaped – _winked_ up at the towering dwarf. Dwalin gave no response beyond a “get to it” quirk of his eyebrow; though when Nori turned back to the table, Bilbo saw Dwalin roll his eyes.

“No matter,” Kili enthused. “There’s not a sticky situation our Nori can’t get out of!”

“Nor a treasure he can’t break in _to_!” said Nori as he traced the edges of the glass desk with his wand. The glass vanished, and with it went the galleons.

“Well there you have it,” Bilbo huffed. “Congratulations all of you, on your lovely new collection. Now, if you’ll excuse me…”

“What, leave before your job’s done?” Nori looked unimpressed – which Bilbo thought was rather rich, coming from a demonstrative thief. “We may as well not have brought you along, then!”

“Yes! Just what I was saying, thank you!” Bilbo nodded, but his words were lost as Kili spoke up in his defense, saying that they couldn’t possibly do the job without Bilbo’s help.

That made no sense. “But you’ve already done it!” Bilbo cried. “Though if you needed the money so badly, you could have just asked for some! I’d much rather loan you fifty galleons than watch you steal fifty galleons, if it’s all the same.”

Beside him, Thorin stiffened, and the lighthearted atmosphere around the group shifted. Bilbo shuffled his feet uneasily, as now each dwarf looked at him with some variance of surprise or offense. Even Fili and Kili looked askance. Only Oin remained unaffected, but as he seemed to have fallen asleep against the marble bust of the Fiftieth Goblin King Grundel the Groaner, Bilbo did not count that for much.

“You think us to be beggars?” Thorin rounded on Bilbo, his bright eyes blazing against the darkness of his face and hair. “Thieves of little honor, who would steal away in the night? We care not for you galleons or silver.”

(Nori looked as if he might protest. Bilbo resisted the urge to point out that the galleons were still very much _missing_ , thank you very much!)

“Aye, we’ve plenty of treasures of our own,” piped in Fili. “No need for your shoddy wizard-gold.”

“Almost as bad as leprechaun gold, that,” Kili agreed, and the whole of the company winced as if Kili had said a distasteful word.

“No, our goal is far more worthy than your coins and trinkets.” Thorin pointed one heavily-ringed finger to the now-empty case. Words failed Bilbo. What did they want then? The wood? The desk itself? Thorin growled lowly and jabbed his finger closer, almost touching the background drawing.

For some reason, this motion made the other dwarves gasp, and Dwalin gave an aborted step forward, hand twitching as if to pull Thorin back. “The map, Halfling,” Thorin spelled out. “The map! Or are your eyes for show only?”

Kili whispered something to Kili, and together they broke into giggles. The glare Thorin sent their way was scathing.

Curious now, Bilbo drew closer to the table. The coins had been lifted, and now he could see indeed that the torn, lifting edges of the old parchment had been labeled with a compass rose and key. A map after all! How subtle!

Still…

“What do you need my help for?” Bilbo gestured invitingly. “Pick it up yourselves.”

“Can’t,” said Kili succinctly. “It’s cursed.”

Bilbo’s breath left him in a _whoosh_. He felt faint. “Cursed?”

“Aye, of the worst sort,” Fili confirmed. “It’s a secret map, after all. Our king didn’t want anybody to be able to use it. He hid – ”

With a slap upside his head, courtesy of Dwalin, Fili yelped and changed tack. “Well, it’s a secret, obviously, or else it wouldn’t have been hidden. Point is, there are lots of spells on the map so that nobody – no creature in all the world other than the king – could touch it.”

Ancient maps and curses and secretive kings! Bilbo felt more than out of his depth.

“Our king was thorough, too. Not even Nori could unravel the spells when he got here.” Nori looked sour, but he didn’t interrupt as Fili went on. “Thrain – er, that is, King Thrain the First – he made it so that not a soul could touch the map, no creature in known existence. Muggles, witches, wizards, goblins, orcs, edhils, elves, even dwarrows. It took months to work in all the repellant charms into the spellwork.”

“So what do you need me for? And why are you all here, if none of you can touch it?”

“Well, that’s the thing, Master hobbit,” Nori smiled oily. “Thrain’s work was complex. Intricate. Lovely. And, it would seem, incomplete. We’ve never had hobbits in Erebor.”

Ah. “You haven’t.” Bilbo remembered the dwarves’ surprise at seeing hobbits in the Great Hall, and even Thorin had seemed confused at first when he’d first met Bilbo.

“Aye,” said Dwalin. “It wasn’t until a few decades ago that we even first heard of hobbits. And even that was strange – news from the West, that the Goblin King had been decapitated by Bullroarer Took, a hobbit at the Battle of Greenfields.”

“My Great-Grand-Uncle,” Bilbo said weakly, and Fili, Kili, and Dwalin looked at him with something approaching respect. “But that was ages ago! That was the first you’d ever heard of us?”

“And the only thing since,” Thorin confirmed. “Hobbits, it seems, are not ones for great deeds or glory.” At Bilbo’s flat stare, he hastened to go on. “The point here, is that the honorable King Thrain, first of his name, would never have heard mention of hobbits in his age.”

“Which means,” Fili concluded. “That he wouldn’t have put a curse against hobbits on the map.”

Kili, who had been listening intently, nodded wisely. “So a hobbit should be able to pick up the map without a problem!”

“Er,” Bilbo frowned. “’Should be?’”

“Well,” Fili digressed. “There’s always the chance of the same thing happening the last time someone other than Thrain touched the map…”

“What was that?”

“Oh, it was awful. He – ”

“That’s not important,” Nori cut in smoothly. “What we need to know, Mister Baggins, is if you’d be willing to do this for us. The curse won’t even let us use spells against it. So you’re really our last chance at it, you see.” His tone was friendly enough, but he had drawn out his wand again, and was twirling it pointedly as he spoke.

With a new perspective, Bilbo looked over at Dwalin. “And…and what happens if I say no?”

“Well,” Kili said cheerfully. “That’s why we’re here! We’re meant to convince you, see, on account of Fili and me being so personable.” Thorin sighed. “And if that didn’t work, well – Oin’s a Potion Master. He has half a Polyjuice brewed already, so he was going to take a bit of you so that one of us could turn into a hobbit and do it ourselves.”

“That’s why Dwalin came along. To help get it, if you put up a fuss.”

“And Fili or I would have drank it to become a hobbit, and gotten the map that way!”

“Taken of bit of me!” Bilbo eyed the runes on Dwalin’s knuckles again. “What bit were you going to take?”

Dwalin only grinned nastily.

"He would have gotten permission first, of course," Thorin said hastily when Bilbo once again drew out his wand.

“We’re glad you said yes, though,” Fili went on cheerily. “I hate Polyjuice Potions – and it would have taken ages to brew it properly anyway.”

“But I haven’t said yes at all!” Bilbo stomped his feet. “It sounds like a terrible idea! You want me to steal from the Hogwarts library – which is rigged against thieves, I’ll have you know – a map that may or may not be cursed against hobbits, in my seventh year, which at the best could get me expelled and at worst turn me to dust? Never mind that it’s immoral to steal – this is just about the worst plan I’ve ever heard!”

“Is it truly?” Thorin asked. “Is it immoral to reclaim that which is rightfully ours? I cannot tell you for what we require this map, Master Baggins, but the purpose is of great worth and import.”

“Life or death, Mister Baggins!” said Kili helpfully.

“You must understand my reluctance in asking this of you,” Thorin went on. “For though no harm should come to you, there is no guarantee. When Balin first suggested that you be the one to help us in this, my first instinct was to refuse. Yet I have been assured by both Balin and Ori of your intelligence and tact. The latter, especially, is of import. More than retrieving the map, it is essential that none should know of its removal.”

“And what will you do when somebody realizes it’s missing?” Bilbo asked, grasping at straws. When Thorin put it like that, it didn’t seem such a terrible idea at all. Honorable, almost, and even a bit exciting. Worse, already Bilbo felt reluctant to say no and disappoint these dwarves. Bother it all!

“No worries there,” Nori pulled out a rolled-up piece of parchment from his pocket. “Ori’s the best scribe there is, next to Balin. They’ve been working on this for over a year now. No one could tell the difference,” he boasted, and it was true – the parchment unrolled looked exactly the same as the one on the desk. Even the lightest scratches and burns had been replicated to a tee!

Bother, bother, and bother again! “Fine!” Bilbo relented. “I will. I’ll do it.” Fili and Kili cheered, and Bilbo puffed his chest out just a bit before dithering again. “So. Just – just lift it out, then? Or can I use a spell?”

“Best use your hands,” Nori advised. “Nothing to it! You’ll be just fine.” Though Bilbo noticed that all the dwarves had taken several steps back.

Palms sweating, heart racing, and sourly cursing himself and all dwarves, Bilbo approached the desk. “No need to make a fuss,” he said to himself, and before he could think of all the reasons why he oughtn’t, he reached in and plucked the old paper up from its setting.

Nothing happened.

“Oh good!” said Kili brightly. “I wondered how we’d clean the mess if you went like the last fellow!”

“Lots of blood,” Fili agreed. “Horrible business.”

“ _Blood_?”

“They exagerrate," Thorin glowered. "To their discredit. Such pranks are beneath you." The two boys visibly deflated beneath the scolding, and Bilbo may have felt badly for them, if Thorin had not then looked up at him.

Oh! Such a sweet smile! All other thoughts left his mind, save for the way Thorin was looking at him: as if Bilbo had just done the best bit of magic in the world. Bilbo suddenly felt five feet tall - and all he'd done was pick up a piece of paper! Thorin looked quite handsome, Bilbo had no trouble in thinking - how unfortunate that the dwarf did not have manners to match his face. Still, he couldn't help but feel this entire venture had been worth it, if only to see that smile. " _You think that was impressive?"_ Bilbo's Tookish side thought to say. _"You should see me pick up books! Sometimes more than one at a time!"_

Bilbo’s face turned red, realizing he’d been staring like a fool, and hastily he held the map out to Thorin.

“Not so fast!” Oin finally spoke up before Thorin could accept. “It’s still cursed against dwarves. You’ll need to dismantle the spells, Mister Baggins, if you’d be so kind. Nori and I’ll walk you through how to do it, never you worry.”

Nori was smoothing the replacement map into the desk. He shook his hands, and one by one, the fifty galleons marched like ants from out of his sleeves to settle in their old places, where they sat happily as Nori smoothed his hands over the air, returning the glass as well.

“Child’s play,” he assured an open-mouthed Bilbo with a grin. “If you like that, you should have seen me in Rivendell two years ago. Now _that_ was a fun time.”

“Rivendell!” Bilbo breathed. “You’ve been?”

“You can chat after the map has been secured,” Thorin said, smile gone. “The rest of us are no longer needed. Fili, Kili, with me. Dwalin – find Bombur, Balin, and Ori and let them know we’ve succeeded. Oin, Nori, bring the map once the hobbit has broken its spellwork.” To Bilbo, he said nothing, and though Fili and Kili gave happy “goodnights!”, Bilbo felt very sullen indeed as he settled down between Oin and Nori.

“Some dare!” he grumbled. “Out-past-curfew turns into stealing turns into cursed maps turns into an all-nighter! This is more than I agreed to!”  

“Think of it as extra credit, Mister Baggins,” Oin suggested breezily. “Now, first things first, let’s get rid of that nasty evisceration spell, shall we?”

“Evisceration!”

The night progressed slowly along that same vein. Hour after hour, one horrible curse after another, Bilbo sat and unraveled spells under the unforgiving direction of Oin and Nori. He felt like a servant – no, worse, like a puppet. “Wave your wand like _this_ , Mister Baggins. Say _this_ Mister Baggins. Don’t put your pinky up like that – are you trying to get us all killed, Mister Baggins?”

It was dawn before Nori even risked touching the map on his own, and hours after when Oin declared it safe for dwarves to pick up. Still they worked Bilbo, unsure if the map would react badly to dwarven spellwork or not. At one point, Nori had looked up and cast a spell of his own, just before the head librarian (a mousy-haired old wizard in faded Slytherin robes) had come in. Bilbo thought for sure they would be caught, but old Professor Longorian merely yawned and worked the locks and enchantments open the doors without pause.

Nori waited until a few students had trickled in – mostly Ravenclaws, though Bilbo recognized some harried-looking Gryffindors looking to rush their morning homework – before he undid his spell.

“Now it just looks like we’re here doing some early schoolwork,” he explained, winking at Bilbo. “Do us a favor, and don’t tell Dwalin about that one, eh? Can’t go giving away all my tricks, can I?”  

Bilbo was in no mood to tell anybody anything. He was exhausted! Hungry! Breaking curses wasn’t nearly so interesting or exciting after the sixth hour of doing so.

Finally, Oin gave a nod, and Nori poked at the map before declaring it completely safe.

“At your service, Mister Baggins,” they both said, and without another word of thanks or congratulations, they left.

Alone, tired, and more grumpy than he’d ever been in his life, Bilbo felt like a fool. “What have I done?” he thought to himself as he trudged, bleary-eyed and bedraggled, towards the Great Hall. “A Baggins, helping a gaggle of dwarves steal from Hogwarts! A Sackville-Baggins, more like. What would father say?”

To make things worse, breakfast had almost concluded by the time he reached the hall, and most of the food had been vanished back to the kitchen. Finding a spot to sit was almost impossible, as most students who did not yet have classes enjoyed mingling in the Great Hall during their off periods. Had he not been a hobbit, Bilbo may have just given up breakfast all together; but he had already done one unrespectable thing that evening – no need to add missing another meal to the list.

“There you are, master hobbit.” A deep voice came from behind, and Bilbo felt a large hand clamp on his shoulder. “I think you should come with me, Bilbo Baggins. We have much to discuss, you and I.” Bilbo turned, and gulped. It was Professor Gandalf. And he was not smiling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Preview for next chapter: "Did you never think to ask what they wanted to use the map for?"


	5. To the Ears of Thieves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for your continued support of this story! 
> 
> As requested by Erinne (sorry darling, I deleted your comment!), we have Nori's POV this time around! (If anyone has any particular scenes/characters they'd like to see more of, I am open to requests!)

What Hogwarts lacked in jewels and finery, it more than made up for with dark corners, deep shadows, and secret passageways. As a dwarf of inconspicuous (and rarely legal) dealings, Nori found the school well to his liking.

Sure, the stairways had given him pause at first, and some of the more forbidden areas came covered in more spells than you could swing a hammer at, but those were solved easily enough; and Nori soon was able to move unseen through the entirety of the castle.

Well, unseen when he _wished_ it.

“Nori!” Ori gasped and clutched at his chest, staring wide-eyed where Nori had landed on the top of his chalkboard. Behind him, a classroom of students tittered. “What are you doing here?”

“That would be telling,” Nori winked, pressing a finger to the side of his nose. “How are you, Ori?”

A few of the students made admiring noises, and Nori was not too proud to preen, flipping his long red braid over his shoulder and grinning roguishly. “I’m gonna borrow your professor here for a tick,” he announced to the class. “You all write an essay, or something.”

“ _Nori_.” Ori held to his chest the thick tome from which he’d been lecturing. “This is my _class_. You can’t just come in and – ”

“ – Whossat, professor?” called out a cheeky young Gryffindor. “Your boyfriend?”

A few students sighed in dismay at the idea, and Nori couldn’t hold in a laugh as Ori turned bright red. “He’s my brother!

“Ooo!” One of the girls in the front perked up. “He looks like you! Which one is he? The famous warrior, or the genius spellbreaker?”

Something warm tightened in Nori’s chest, and he smiled fondly when Ori drew up to his full height and declared with pride, “The latter. In fact, the runes which you’ll have to break for your final examinations came from a crypt that only Nori was ever able to crack! He’s a prodigy!” 

“Oh nah, nothing so great as that,” Nori said. “All I am is a bit lost. Came to ask baby brother for directions. Maybe a _map_ , if you’ve got one?” Ori’s eyes widened. “Won’t take a moment.”

“Class,” Ori announced hurriedly, scrawling out runes and symbols on the blackboard faster than Nori could follow. “You may begin your assignment until I get back! First, translate this paragraph – and no, Shan, you may not use the answer key unless it is to check your work. Then, three pages of parchment on the similarities or differences in Norse and Gaelic runes, and the implications. Two sources!” And then Ori grabbed Nori’s collar and _hauled_ the older dwarf down from the chalkboard and into his office with never a by-your-leave.

Nori just had time to hear one of the girls sigh, “He’s so _strong_ ,” before the door slammed shut behind them.

Releasing his brother, Ori brushed off and straightened his robes. They were very professional: deep red, well-cut, and meticulously maintained – a far cry from the hand-knitted cardigans Ori had favored in Erebor. Though, Nori noticed with a grin, he _could_ see the tail-end of a cable-knit cuff peeking out from beneath the fine red.

“Why, little brother!” he tweaked at one of Ori’s shining brown braids. “You’ve grown up and become _handsome_! And with a fanclub too, from the sound of it. Little wonder! You’re taking after me, with that nose!”

“Oh hush,” Ori batted away Nori’s hand impatiently, eyes bright. “You did it though? Really? Truly? Fili and Kili said you’d got it, but is it safe for…” Eyes glazed over as Nori pulled the carefully-folded map from his pocket, Ori let out a reverent breath. “Already?”

“Finished it up not half an hour ago,” Nori proclaimed, handing the map over. “Thorin took a good look already, but he agreed you should try to figure it out first. Your Halfling is a quick one – sharp and quiet. Didn’t take nearly so long’s we thought it would, and nobody lost any fingers. Though – ” He held up his own, reddened and blistered from when he’d first tried to pick up the map. “Oin rushed off to guest-lecture some potions class ‘fore he could patch these. You got anything?”

“Hmm?” Ori looked up from the map. “Oh! Oh, yes! Yes, um. Hm. Well, I know I have some salve in here somewhere…Balin’s always saying that I’m going to burn myself, falling asleep with my candles lit, and you know, he’s been right once or twice!” The only part of the room not carefully organized, Ori’s desk was covered in a gross assortment of scrolls, papers, ink wells of all colors, and (Nori raised an eyebrow and smirked) what appeared to be heartfelt gifts from Ori’s students. Through all of this Ori shifted and searched before bringing up a small bronze tin. “Here!” He tossed it over. “Use that.”

The cap came off with a pop! and the smell of wax and mint wafted from inside. “Ta,” said Nori, helping himself to the cooling gel. He wiggled his fingers as the shiny blisters faded back to callouses. “Can’t stay long, I’m afraid. But I wanted to stop by and give you a looksee at the map. Thorin’s got me running some errands this mornin’.”

“Errands” was perhaps the wrong word for what Thorin was having Nori do. “Sneaking” may be more appropriate; “stalking” more like. When Nori had first turned up, fresh from the library and flourishing the map with triumph, Thorin had been visibly relieved. He’d stopped his pacing of the carpet before the fireplace (the spare dormitories offered by the school were quite accommodating, Nori found. They seemed to anticipate a dwarf’s every need, and be stocked appropriately), and had almost relaxed into a smile.

“The Halfling?” Thorin had asked, peering over Nori’s shoulder as if the hobbit were hiding behind Nori’s back. Carelessly, Nori had shrugged, and subsequently jumped when Thorin had shouted: “You _left_ him _behind_?”

“You never said you wanted him to come back, too!” Nori had defended himself. “And the little guy was fine, anyhow. Maybe a bit tired, but just so. Anyway, what do you care?”

And Thorin, to Nori’s extreme astonishment, had _blushed_.

“Oh,” Nori had breathed, wide-eyed, a slow sly grin creeping over his face as he leaned against a side table casually. “Oh well, I _see_. Well, that’s all right then, isn’t it? And not too unexpected – he is a handsome little fella, isn’t he? Quite the pretty curls.”

Thorin’s glare could have split stones, but Nori had grown up with Dwalin, whose emotional expressions ranged from “brooding” to “homicidal,” and was not so easily intimidated. Instead, he’d simply raised an eyebrow and struggled to keep his amusement in check as Thorin went on about “loyalty” and “just rewards” and “common decency.” Finally, after grasping at straws, Thorin had seized upon a solid vein of reason.

“The hobbit must be followed, to ensure his secrecy in this matter. Determine his character,” Thorin had directed. “And report back to me.” At Nori’s barely-contained smirk, Thorin had growled low in his chest: “We must see if the hobbit can be trusted. And for that, you will need to follow him. Now go!”

And so Nori had gone, but not without first promising to find out the hobbit’s favorite color, where he preferred to take his meals, and whether or not he had a significant other. Even with all his training, he’d barely managed to duck the chair Thorin had thrown at him in retaliation.

“Oh Nori,” Ori gushed, still poring over the map. “Look at this! It’s absolutely perfect.”

“I’ll have take your word for it.” For Nori, the map’s appeal lay in what it led _towards_. What good was a map without treasure at the end? But Ori had always had a fascination with dusty old things – Nori suspected that, even if the map hadn’t held the clues they needed, Ori would have loved it based on its age alone.

Strange lad.

“And, is Mister Baggins alright?” Ori asked offhandedly. “He didn’t get burned or anything, did he?”

What was with the concern for the hobbit? “Nah, he’s fine. You were right. The map didn’t have a single curse against hobbits on it. Fidgety fella though. I don’t think Thorin even told him what we were up to. The little guy looked out of his wits half the time. Thought he would faint, once or twice.”

“What?” Ori looked up from the map with a scandalized expression. “Faint? Is he alright? You saw him back to his dorm?”

“Ah…no. Not really, no. He seemed comfy enough where he was – and Oin and me were in a hurry, and – ”

“ _Nori_!” Ori may have inherited Nori’s nose, but that stern look of disapproval was all Dori. “Oh, you’re hopeless. He’s one of my _students_! Just don’t tell Balin, he’ll have your head! Poor Mister Baggins…I’ve got him before lunch – I’ll have to see how he’s doing. Hobbits aren’t used to excitement like that, and Bilbo Baggins least of all! The poor lad hardly spends any time outside of his books.”

Nori grinned and changed the subject. “Now where have I heard that before?” He thinned his voice in a fair approximation of Dori’s. “’Going alone to Hogwarts, you say? Spy on the castle, you say? Not on my watch! The boy’s a scribe, used to quiet things, not missions such as this!’”

Ori laughed, and Nori went on. “Now, what was it you said? Something like, ‘I’m going whether you like it or not, Dori? I’m not afraid? And if anyone wants to stop me, I’ll give him a taste of dwarvish iron…’”

“Right up his jacksie,” Ori grinned, unrepentant.

“Atta boy,” Nori ruffled his younger brother’s hair, noting with bittersweet pride that he didn’t have to reach so very far down to do so anymore. “And you’ve turned out just fine. So don’t go underestimating the quiet folk. I’m off to check on the little bugger right now, anyway. Majesty’s orders.”

“What,” Ori turned, eyes wide. “Not Thorin?”

“Mmm-hmm. Apparently Mister Baggins is the very same hobbit that Thorin said pointed him in the direction of the Great Hall the other day. And didn’t you say he was asking a lot of questions about the hobbit, later that evening?”

“Well yes.” A rune suddenly flashed on Ori’s door – Nori recognized it as ‘sneak’ – and thus distracted Ori quickly threw the door open and demanded: “What did I say about copying off another’s work? Next person I catch cheating is scribing out _Hogwarts, A History_ , from cover to cover!”

Shutting the door again on his students’ moaning (“How does he always _know_?”), Ori turned back to Nori.

“But, I think that Thorin was probably only wanting to figure what kind of person Mister Baggins was – to see if he could handle the task.”

“He’s got me following him today, too, to figure out his character. Lots of curiosity, to have for one little hobbit.”

"Hmmm." Ori looked suspicious, but he folded away the map reverently before shooing Nori toward the door. “Thank you for the map, Nori, but really! I can’t have you distracting me from my classes just to gossip about my students. Though,” he added thoughtfully. “If you are looking for Mister Baggins, you should try the Great Hall – the hobbits have second breakfast in there around this time. You might just catch him before it’s over.”

And so away Nori had went, with a backwards call that Ori would surely appreciate a pair of knitted gloves as a gift (several students had giggled at this, and even more had flushed terrifically). Spirits high, Nori easily navigated the halls quickly, with barely time to reflect fondly on how much his little brother had grown up – it seemed only yesterday he’d been lisping his ‘p’s and tagging along after Nori and Dwalin – before he caught up to Bilbo Baggins. He drew up short. The hobbit was not alone.

Somewhere in the castle, Dori’s ears were burning as Nori spat out a stream of curses like to shame their entire house. But who could blame him, when who else had beaten him to the Halfling, but that blasted grey wizard!

Nori had nothing against Gandalf, personally; indeed, Gandalf had played an instrumental part in establishing the company at Hogwarts, and he had done so with few questions asked.

 _Too_ few questions, in Nori’s opinion. Maybe Thorin and Dwalin had been satisfied with the wizard’s excuses, but Nori could smell an agenda from a mile away; and no matter how enthusiastic Gandalf had been about “forging bonds between schools,” Nori suspected an ulterior motive.

And here was that self-same wizard, with a stern hand on Bilbo Baggins’ shoulder, leading the hobbit away from the Great Hall. Cursing again, Nori followed, keeping close to the shadows. Beneath his robes, he cast the Iglishmek for _quiet_ , _secret_ , and _notice-me-not_.

Few knew of the secret hand-language of the dwarves, and even fewer knew of its magical applications – but what did wizards expect? That the magical creatures of the world had simply sat on their hands, waiting for them to stop hoarding wand-lore? No, dwarves had developed a magic all of their own, through runes and signs and an innate knowledge of stone, and it all worked to Nori’s benefit as he followed Gandalf and Bilbo unseen across the Hogwarts grounds.

As luck would have it, they went not towards an office (the locked door of which would have proven to be a minor obstacle for Nori), but settled instead on the lower stands of the Quidditch field. Above them, a team of green-striped flyers zipped around on broomsticks, walloping each other with balls and clubs.

Nori would never understand some things about tall-folk.

The noise provided him excellent cover, though, and with ease he snuck below the riser where Gandalf and Bilbo sat to hear their conversation. And this is what he heard:

“I owe you something of an apology, Bilbo Baggins,” said Gandalf with no preamble.

Bilbo startled and stopped fidgeting with his hands. “Sir?”

“Two years, has it been, since your mother’s passing?” Back suddenly straight, the hobbit looked down determinedly. If Gandalf noticed this discomfort, he said nothing about it. “Yes, so I thought.”

Gandalf heaved a sigh, and from the sleeves of his robe he twirled a long wooden pipe. Lighting the end with a click of his fingers, Gandalf took a long drag. He held in the smoke and passed the pipe to Bilbo before exhaling heavily. “One of my best students, was Belladonna Took,” Gandalf sighed. “And after her graduation, a dear friend. I was much grieved to hear of her illness some months past. I fear my condolences now come too late.”

Nori did not hear what Bilbo Baggins said in reply, but he did see an expertly-fashioned smoke ring rise up above the hobbit’s head, and Gandalf hummed in reply.

“I was just getting to that, yes.” A lull came in the conversation, during which a very portly wizard crashed into a goal hoop. Bilbo winced, and Gandalf chuckled, while Nori repressed a very bored sigh. Is this what Thorin had sent him out to do?

Gandalf went on. “Did you know that your mother was one of the brightest students I’ve ever had the pleasure to instruct? Stalwart and stubborn, that was Belladonna Took – and quite the kind spirit as well. Of course, you would already know this.

“Perhaps you did not know, however, that Belladonna was also a remarkably cautious hobbit. Oh, she was adventurous, yes, but never a where she went that hadn’t been carefully planned and prepared for. Most wise. In this, I had thought you may be alike.” Gandalf looked down his nose to Bilbo, with more concern than condescension. “What were you up to last night, Bilbo?”

Nori stiffened. Not good. The wizard had known? How? Had the hobbit told someone about last night? Nori couldn’t blame him, not really, though he did have a few choice words for the hobbit forming in his mind – that is, until Bilbo responded:

“I- I am certain I don’t know what you mean, professor.”

“Oh?”

Bilbo made a non-committal noise and shrugged. “I was in the library all night, studying. Accidentally pulled an all-nighter, ran late for breakfast. That’s all.”

Well, thought Nori. _Well_. Apparently there was more to this hobbit than met the eye! It may have even been a believable lie, had the hobbit not kept wringing his hands together so fervently.

“Bilbo,” said Gandalf slowly, in the tone one uses to discipline children. _I know you’re lying right now_. Nori knew it well from Dori. “Do you know why the dwarves have come from Erebor?”

“To…to forge bonds between schools, isn’t it?”

“Yes, well, that is what they say.”

The wizard was silent again, before seemingly changing tack. “Do you know, that for many years now, I have been petitioning the king and headmaster of Erebor to create a cultural exchange program between Erebor and Hogwarts? Over sixty years, I have met and negotiated and proposed to deaf ears. Year after year, I was turned away. ‘Too friendly with edhils, too far for the students, what could Hogwarts teach that the dwarves did not already know,’ etcetera.

“And then, what should happen some months ago, but Erebor should come to _me_ , asking to begin a trial program with a select group of dwarves immediately. What does this tell you?”

Bilbo kicked his feet – his large heels swung back precariously close to Nori’s nose. “Seems…seems a bit suspicious to me, sir.”

“Indeed. However, when I communicated this obvious agenda to Professor Galadriel, she insisted that they be allowed to come. She’s remained frustratingly opaque on the matter. And just this morning, I received an owl from her – here, read this.”

As quietly as he could, Nori crept closer and peered over Bilbo’s shoulder. A small piece of parchment, with elegant script written across, read:

 

_The Dwarrows have retrieved the map. Congratulate Bilbo Baggins._

 

Shit! Thought Nori. Shit, shit, shit! They had forgotten to account for Galadriel – though Balin had tried to warn them. A great divinator, he had said, an even better legilimens. Proceed with caution. 

Well, what edhil didn’t have _some_ kind of divinating abilities? “A master,” Balin had said. Well, so what? Dwarves never held much stock in divination and legilimency anyway – what could one willowy headmistress know?

Quite a lot, by the looks of things. Shit!

Or, perhaps not – for Gandalf seemed frustrated. “Now,” he said sternly. “To which map is she referring?”

“I have no idea,” Bilbo replied. “And there’s no need to congratulate me – Professor Galadriel already did so at the start of the year. She must have forgotten.”

“Oh?”

Curls bobbing, Bilbo nodded earnestly. “Fourth year running, my tomatoes have taken home the prize! You’ll have to thank Professor Galadriel for the kindness for me, sir.”

“Hmm.” Nori had heard _that_ tone of voice before too – from Dwalin, mostly – disapproving, unimpressed, and only slightly amused. “You have no knowledge of this map of theirs.”

“None.”

“And did you never think to ask what they wanted to use this map _for_?”

Without missing a beat, Bilbo replied: “How could I, when I don’t know about it? I haven’t spoken to any of them outside of Professor Bombur. And really sir, I’m going to be late for his class – is this all you needed to talk about?”

Nori was impressed. Sure, it was obvious the little guy was lying, but he was stubborn about it. No matter how Gandalf pressed, Bilbo remained dismissive.

In the end, the wizard gave in, stating his own places to be. “I expect to see you there tomorrow morning, Bilbo Baggins – and we can discuss this further.”

“Good morning,” Bilbo waved him goodbye. As soon as Gandalf had left his sight, all cheeriness dropped from his face; and, despite his earlier insistences on being late for class, the hobbit remained on the bleachers for some time, kicking his feet and looking at the ground in deep thought.

Nori was about to give up the job as far too boring for his time, when the hobbit finally burst out, “Confusticate those dwarves! Noisy, ungrateful, and plain old bad business. I’m done with the lot of them!” And away he pushed from the stands.

Smothering his laughter, Nori quietly followed behind him. Bilbo Baggins had proven himself resourceful and honorable, and the morning was only half over! Nori looked forward to whatever other surprises the hobbit had in store.

(And if at the end of the day, knees and back sore from all the sneaking and crouching, Nori embellished the hobbit's words just slightly - "He said we're noisy, ungrateful, and not at all handsome and charming. And he hates blue eyes and black hair. Horrible business, he said." - when giving his report to Thorin well, a dwarf needed his payback, didn't he?)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you for reading! For those who take the time to comment - I truly appreciate your feedback! Thank you so much!


	6. The Desolation of Smaug

Bilbo would have liked to say that his day – once Gandalf had left him at the Quidditch field – had resumed its normal routine; and perhaps on the surface, this was so. After all, the novelty of the new dwarves had now ebbed from the school, and so Hogwarts had finally settled (well, as settled as Hogwarts could ever be). Yet Bilbo could not help but be troubled.

At first, he could not tell what it was that seemed so wrong. He hadn’t been phased by his near-trampling by a group of shrieking first years, pursued good-humoredly by the Bloody Baron; nor by the rampant infestation of numfwunks in the lower dungeons. Not even the Howlers sent his way from his increasingly frustrated house-mates, demanding help with the daily password, had given Bilbo pause – these things were all par-for-the-course, at Hogwarts.

Still, something was off.

Almost as soon as Gandalf had left, Bilbo had noticed it: a shivering round the shoulders that gave the distinct impression of one being watched. It lasted all day, much to Bilbo’s consternation.

Even stranger – no, the strangest of all, what _really_ bothered Bilbo – was how the _teachers_ were suddenly acting!

It had started in Study of Ancient Runes, with Professor Ori. The dwarf had always been friendly with Bilbo, sharing a common love of tea, books, and comfortable things. More than once, Professor Ori had offered to mentor Bilbo, should the hobbit ever wish to pursue scrivening after graduation.

Still with all this in common, Ori had never shown favorites. Not one student was singled out above another, for which Bilbo was grateful (after all, Professor Ori had quite a few admirers, and Bilbo shuddered to think of being on their bad side!).

But what should happen, the instant Bilbo walked into class?

“Ten points to Ravenclaw, Baggins!”

Bilbo had startled, knocking over Gail McKenna’s inkwell. The Hufflepuff wood nymph’s hair had curled in irritation before she’d drawn her wand to siphon the ink from her robes with a scowl.

Apologizing profusely, Bilbo had hurried to his seat. “Thank you, sir,” he’d mumbled, looking up to where Professor Ori stood at the room’s front. “Erm. What for, though, sir?”

“For superior dedication,” Professor Ori had said, smiling kindly. “I heard from Master Grockjaw this morning that you were the last in the library last night, and first to the books this morning. Excellent priorities, placing academics first.”

Bilbo had flushed but nodded, accepting a few hearty pats on the back from his fellow Ravenclaws with a pleased little smile. And that would have been enough.

But it hadn’t stopped there. By the end of the class period, Professor Ori had awarded Ravenclaw no fewer than eighty points, all thanks to Bilbo’s “excellent wandwork,” “fantastic translations,” “remarkable generosity” (Bilbo had simply leant Grimdela his quill!), and once – it seemed – for no reason at all other than Bilbo having held the door open on his way out of class.

Bemused, Bilbo had left the classroom quickly, his large feet quiet on the cold stone floors so as to avoid notice. It didn’t help – already a few of his peers had looked at him oddly, and one boy – Gryffindor third-year Monroe Wilson – had looked with dark jealousy at Bilbo.

Unused to such extra attention, Bilbo had felt very harried as he’d rushed through the halls to his next class: Earth Magic, which was quickly becoming Bilbo’s favorite. He had a knack, Professor Bombur praised, for working the earth. Bilbo could hardly wait until they moved past rocks and stones and into the growing of things.

That class, at least, Bilbo had trusted would have nothing out of the ordinary. He’d been wrong, of course, as seemed to be the theme for the semester so far. In this case, at least, the surprise had been pleasant.

Upon entering the gardens, Bilbo had gasped with delight, along with the rest of his classmates. Professor Bombur had set up rows upon rows of chairs and tables – no cause for joy on their own – but at the front of them all had stood a large table full of pies and pastries. They had all stared, many of the hobbits with a dangerous glint in their eyes, until Professor Bombur and another dwarf had walked in.

“Observation only!” the kind professor had announced merrily. “Everyone put your feet up and help yourself. I’m sure these past few days have been a hassle for more than a few of you! And I always say,” he’d smiled and patted his generous belly fondly. “Nothing settles better than food in the stomach.”

“He really does say it, all the time,” had said the other dwarf, suddenly at Bilbo’s elbow. He’d had a mischievous smile, ridiculous curling braids, and a very comfortable-looking hat perched on his head. “Bofur, at your service, Master Hobbit. Care for a scone?”

“Thank you,” Bilbo had said happily, taking both a raspberry scone and a chocolate croissant from the dwarf’s plate. This had evidently been an invitation to Bofur, who had swung his leg over the bench and easily settled in next to Bilbo.

“Here, I’m not taking up anybody’s seat, am I?”

“Oh no, not at all!” Bilbo had tried to smile as welcomingly as possible through a mouthful of pastry. “All the other hobbits pair off in their houses, and I’m the only one in Ravenclaw, so.”

Bofur had frowned, broken a roll in half – revealing a cooked sausage within! Bilbo had eyed it covetously – and placed it on Bilbo’s plate. “Well,” the dwarf had said. “I’ll just have to intrude on your solitude then, if you don’t mind!”

“No trouble at all!” Particularly since Bofur’d seemed intent on giving every other bite of his food to Bilbo. He would have felt badly about it, had his stomach not taken the chance to remind him that it had missed its breakfast, and perhaps an extra croissant or five would not go amiss. “Are you taking this class as well?”

“No, not as such,” Bofur had shrugged. “Just helping out a bit today. Bombur’s family, see. ‘Smatter of fact, he’s probably a bit annoyed his big brother’s here to check in on ‘im.”

“Oh! You’re related! I should have known – the names are very similar.” Bilbo had munched on his scone, thinking where he had heard a similar-sounding name, before remembering: “There’s another dwarf here, Befur or Bifur I think? Any relation?”

“Bifur!” Bofur'd grinned cheerily, just as Professor Bombur started calling the class to attention. “He’s our cousin – he’ll be coming in to help sometimes too. But today’s all me – I’m somewhat of a specialist, you see.” Pressing a finger to the side of his nose, Bofur had winked cheekily. “Bombur’s always been a bit crap at mining. Always good at the building and shaping, but he’s bent stone walls into archways without knowing they were full of rubies. And gems ain’t worth much if you’ve worked magic on ‘em, first. So, being a selfless sort myself, I tagged along today to show you all how the mining magic’s done.”

“Don’t lie,” Bombur had called easily. “You’re only here for the food.”

“Aye, there’s that as well,” Bofur, after stuffing three biscuits into his mouth, had stood. “Better earn my fill then, eh? Watch here, you lot.” And he had tossed the rest of his plate to Bilbo, cementing the dwarf in the hobbit’s good graces, for little endeared a Baggins (or a Took, or a Gamgee, or any creature west of Bree) more than good food shared well. 

The following presentation had been marvelous, Bofur demonstrating that above all things, stone always responded best – to everyone’s surprise – to music. “Singing the spell is a bit like saying it twice,” Bofur had explained after a particularly rousing reel, which had called out three lumps of coal out from the ground. “There’s a reason that dwarves whistle while they work!” The class had tittered. “But not just any ol’ tune’ll do the job. It’s knowing the right tunes for what you’re lookin’ for, that makes the difference.”

Bilbo couldn’t have thought of a better class if he’d tried: fantastic food, new magic, and entertaining teachers! Even music! The hobbit had left the class in a particularly cheerful mood, at least until Professor Bombur’d pulled him aside. “Twenty points for Ravenclaw,” he’d said. “For being so kind to my brother.”

Now really! Bilbo had thought this very strange. Who hadn’t been kind to Bofur? Why had he, Bilbo Baggins, been singled out? If anything, Bofur had been particularly kind to _him_ out of everybody else!

Only then, did Bilbo realize that perhaps the class had been a bit _too_ tailored to the likes of hobbits. Or, was that conceited of him? Surely it was a stretch, to assume the lesson had been a treat just for _him_!

Still, a suspicion had been planted in his mind: one which was confirmed during History of Magic.

Bilbo had once heard Nearly-Headless Nick of Gryffindor remark how strange it was, that History of Magic was one of the more popular classes at Hogwarts. Evidently, there had once been a time when the class had been dreadfully dull, taught by a ghost whose boredom surpassed even death. Bilbo couldn’t imagine it. Professor Balin was a legendary orator. He could make anything sound interesting. In fact, Bilbo remembered being in his first year, listening, enthralled, as Professor Balin had given directions towards the Quidditch field to a lost young wizard.

Naturally, hearing him speak on battles and intrigues and magical feuds was quite a treat, and as such, his classes were always full to the brim. Even still, Professor Balin managed to single out Bilbo – though he did it in a way much more subtle than the other dwarven teachers. In fact, to other students, nothing may have seemed amiss at all.

However, it did not escape Bilbo’s notice that he had been called upon to answer questions which had very obvious answers, with such a great frequency that by the end of the class, Ravenclaw had pulled ahead in points by at least thirty. To ice the cake, Professor Balin had then assigned each student individual passages from different texts; and Bilbo’s assignment had sparked envious sighs from his peers.

“ _The Desolation of Smaug_?” Grimdela had given a sour look of pure longing at the scroll on Bilbo’s desk. “I’ve been pestering Professor Ori to get a copy for ages!”

Bilbo had nodded reverently, quickly hiding the excerpt of dwarven history in his bag before Professor Balin could change his mind. The old dwarf was notorious for skimping on dwarven history (always claiming that the business of dwarves was the business of dwarves). Rarely did the class ever learn anything more than that which was loosely outlined in the history books: that is to say, not very much at all. And now Bilbo was being permitted to, not only read, but _analyze_ one of their histories!

The story was not new. Who hadn’t at one point heard of _The Desolation of Smaug_? But this version, Professor Balin had assured, had been newly translated by Professor Ori himself. Bilbo was to read and note any differences between it and the version of the story told in _The Historee of Middle Earth_ , and turn in three parchment’s worth by Friday.

Now alone in the library, his stomach just beginning to pique in interest of the oncoming meal, Bilbo huddled himself in a too-big armchair, and lost himself in the story.

Oh, how wonderfully written! Bilbo thought. He could clearly see the influence of Professors Ori and Balin in the narrative. It put Bilbo in mind of Professor Balin’s lecture on the Treaty of the Toothless: a class which had held its audience transfixed and gasping.

Bilbo felt similarly now, as he read of Smaug the Terrible, and how he had ransacked the kingdoms of Erebor and Khazad-dûm. His heart thrilled in his chest, following the tale, and he soon became lost in its telling.

_Deep in the golden heart of the mountain they slept, two great evils of fire and death: Smaug the Terrible, whose great reaching claws stole life and treasure both with equal pleasure, and that likely foe, the torturous Bane of Durin the Great._

_Deep in the darkness they rotted the air, glutted like worms on blood and despair, their wretched murk on the holy halls stained, sunken and fetid with greed and decay._

_Such desecration of their sacred halls proved too great a blow for the dwarven people. Lead by the stalwart king, Thrain the First, the armies of Erebor marched upon Moria, goblin and dwarf alike seeking to purge the wretches from the holy mountain._

Bilbo made a note. Professor Ori had been careful to include the aid of the goblins in his translation. _Historee of Middle Earth_ made no mention of their involvement, having been written by wizards with little regard for goblins at the time. Bilbo made note in the margins of his parchment the implications, and then eagerly read on.

_Many were lost. Like flies to a rotting sack of meat, Urukai had swarmed to Moria, drawn by the evil within. With mighty rolls of thunder and steel, foe struck foe down before the high gates. Yet there the armies of Thrain stood strong, and forced back the orcs over cliff and sword. They would be victorious. They would be undefeated._

_Smaug awoke._

_The dragon cared not for any outside the mountain, not for the evil Urukai, and less so for the dwarrows and goblins against them. From the high holy doors rolled a terrible heat, which spread like a bone-melting wind. None were spared in the path of the dragon’s fire as it bellowed and smoked from deep Khazad-dûm._

_None were spared. All perished. To approach the doors of the mountain was to meet with death, and so died the hope of many._

Bilbo came back to himself with a shudder, remembering his mother describing the lands of Moria, how the stones of the mountain held scorch marks, deep and dark and reaching as shadows, which stretched out for miles from Moria’s gates, only to halt at the edge of Lothlorien, as if stayed by a powerful spell.

How had such an evil been defeated? Bilbo couldn’t imagine ever standing at the door of a dragon, even with an entire army of dwarves and goblins at his side. He continued to read.

_…and so died the hope of many._

_Not so for Thrain, stalwart king and descendent of the Deathless himself. He alone knew of a path, a secret way deep into the mountain. Mightiest warriors with him he took – their names be sung throughout the ages: Magni son of Freki, Thrym daughter of Mim, her own daughter Ymir, and Sjoormdi of the Siblings ‘Di._

_Each blazing like the point of a star, the mighty Thrain its lightning edge, they made their way to the golden heart where in the dark the fell Smaug hid._

_Treasures like to blind with their radiance served a pillow for the beast. Such wanton abuse of holy relics, the dwarrows flew to their arms, ready to battle the fire drake – or die with honor in trying._

_Such fate was met to Thrymsdottir and Frekisson, lost to the insatiable belly of the dragon. The others rallied best they could, but no spear nor shield was matched to Smaug’s impenetrable hide._

_Fire and blood flowed like rivers round the mountains of gold, and all outside the mountain despaired to hear the roars within._

_But in the heat of battle, who but Thrain I stood before the fire drake, and though the heat burned and melted flesh from bone, still Thrain pressed on, with his great shield of iron before him, til at last he came to the belly of the beast. And though the wyrm did thrash and stamp, it could not reach the nimble Thrain, who with his last breath swung his long sword straight and true, that lonely weakness, the faulty cornerstone, and down fell Smaug in a dying gasp. Down Smaug fell in a noise like thunder which shatters bone. Down Smaug fell, and beneath him took the noble Thrain._

“Here now what’s this?” Came a dusty voice close to Bilbo’s ear. He jumped, heart pounding, and looked up from his reading to see Master Grockjaw peering over a tall pile of books. “I thought I’d sent everyone on their way,” the old wizard mused. “But it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve overlooked a hobbit, and it certainly won’t be my last! But here, that’s the second night in a row you’ve pushed the hours, Mister Baggins. Best move along now. The feast started not half an hour ago.”

Half an hour! Bilbo leapt to his feet. “Yessir! Thank you sir. Time got away from me.”

“Well, better run to catch it up,” Grockjaw said as three more books – two from the windowsill, and one from beneath the carpet – levitated to his arms.

“Yessir!” Bilbo pushed his things into his bag, pausing to scribble _But what about Durin’s Bane?_ at the bottom of his page before packing up. “Goodnight, sir.”

“Goodnight Mister Baggins.” With a sad tilt to his brow and a disapproving purse of his mouth, Grockjaw waved Bilbo away. His worried expression hardly registered with Bilbo, who felt so distracted that he was hardly hungry, rushing through the corridors with his bag trailing behind like a cape.

His mind buzzed with the excitement and pleasure of his read. What a story! What an adventure! He felt full to the brim with thoughts of golden kings and towering mountains, of heroes and courage and a fast-rising horizon. Not for the first time, he wondered at the feel of living rock beneath his feet and new air in his lungs.

Of course, it could never happen. Bilbo would graduate by the end of this year, and return as all hobbits did to The Shire. He would live out his days in the comfort of Bag End, like his mother and father before him, and the most he’d see of mountains would be in maps and drawings.

But surely it couldn’t hurt to think on it though, Bilbo reasoned as he bustled into the Great Hall. His high spirits dropped a bit when he saw that every seat at the Hufflepuff table had been taken, save one, which was surrounded by –

“Mister Baggins!” waved Kili happily. He sat with his brother and Thorin – across from Bofur, Dori, Nori, and Dwalin. All of them crowded at the end of the Hufflepuff table. “We saved you a seat!” And indeed, they had done so, along with a hefty plate of potatoes, green beans, and mushrooms.

“We had to fight Bofur for the bread rolls,” Kili said happily when Bilbo sat. “So you’d better enjoy them. I thought he’d take a finger off me, when I pulled ‘em away!”

Bofur laughed and – true to tale – reached across the way to snatch a roll from Bilbo’s plate. “Dig in, Mister Baggins! You’re the hero of the hour! Never knew hobbits could be so brave!”

“Stop that!” Dori slapped Bofur’s hand. He was a very well-put-together dwarf, Bilbo couldn’t help but notice – soft-looking grey hair braided in tight and complicated patterns round his chin and head – though his glare was fierce as he took the bread from Bofur’s hand and returned it to Bilbo’s plate. “We’re meant to be showing our respect, remember!” 

That proved it! Bilbo turned in his seat, hands on his hips (he wished he weren’t sitting down, so as to make the gesture more intimidating), and looked sternly at the nearest dwarf. To his surprise, this was Thorin, who snapped his eyes away from Bilbo’s feet to look first in Bilbo’s eyes, and then disinterestedly at the table.

Bilbo frowned. “Have you been having your dwarves give me special treatment? Or extra points?”

“Of course not,” Thorin told the potatoes. After a pause – “And they are not _my_ dwarves. They do as they please.”

“Oh _ho_ , is that so?” laughed Nori. “In that case, perhaps it will please me to not – oof!” The breath left his lungs as Dwalin casually jammed his elbow between Nori’s ribs. The red-headed dwarf glared and began to pile sautéed onions onto Dwalin’s plate in retaliation. Bofur laughed, and helped, and between the two a large mound of onions and cabbage quickly covered Dwalin’s steak.

The resulting scuffle sent more than one witch and wizard – and one _very_ upset goblin – skidding away in their chairs. Fili and Kili eagerly reached over the table to join in the ruckus, leaving only Thorin, Bilbo, and Dori to continue their meal. The latter seemed torn between eating his dinner with dignity, and pulling the other dwarves into order.

Bilbo, for his part, felt overwhelmed. He was accustomed to taking his meals alone – perhaps occasionally with Hamfast or Grimdela – and so he hardly knew how to deal with any company, never mind any this rowdy! His heart pounded as a link of sausages went flying through the air; and when a cheese wheel was brought down over Bofur’s head – crumbs spilling through his hair and landing in Dori’s tea – Bilbo felt a strange tight feeling in his throat.

Enraged at the spoiling of his tea, Dori slammed his hand down on the table with a clatter. The rings on his fingers glowed a vibrant green; and as one, the collars of Dwalin, Nori, Bofur, Fili, and Kili pulled forward, as if grabbed by invisible hands, and slammed their heads into the table.

“Settle _down_!” Dori growled, picking hunks of cheese out of Bofur’s hair. “Really!”

The tightness spread in Bilbo’s throat, baffling him for a moment before he recognized the feeling: amusement. Fun. Surprised, Bilbo let out a low chuckle of laughter. Perhaps he’d grown too used to his own quiet company, Bilbo thought, if he found this rowdy group entertaining. (Though he couldn’t help but think that his mother would have enjoyed them all as well. After hiding the good china, of course.)

To his left, Thorin cleared his throat once, twice, and then looked at Bilbo. Suddenly pinned, and feeling very much like an insect under inspection, Bilbo quieted and fought against the urge to straighten his tie and pat down his riotous curls.

“I am gladdened,” said Thorin stiffly. “That you have been rewarded for your efforts the evening previous. It will not be enough, of course, and so we remain in your debt.”

Behind Thorin’s back, Fili rolled his eyes. Bilbo frowned, confused, but hurried to answer anyway. “Oh no,” he said. “No, no need for that! Besides,” he lied. “I was happy to help!”

“Happy?” Fili peered around Thorin’s shoulder. “Nori said you were swearing seven ways to Durin’s Day, and that at one point you threatened to stick your wand up Oin’s – ”

“Yes well,” Bilbo said hastily. “Obviously Master Nori is given to exaggeration.”

“Aye,” said Dwalin, looking pointedly at Nori. “A kind word for ‘lying.’ Matches up quite nicely with the thieving.”

Nori raised a decidedly-unimpressed eyebrow, but Bilbo could see him palming his wand and tracing some sort of rune under the table, and (remembering the mess the dwarves had made of the Great Hall before) he thought hurriedly of how to change the subject.

“You know, I’d thought that you lot had shacked up with the Slytherins. Seemed that way – you’re always eating with them.” Then, not knowing what possessed him to do so, he said to Thorin teasingly. “Did you lose your way again? Their table is at the far end of the Hall.”

This was apparently a sore spot, for even as the other dwarves at the table – even proper Dori! – collapsed into laughter, Thorin’s neck flushed a dark red.

“If my presence offends,” for some reason, Thorin glared at Kili as he spoke, “then I can easily remove myself.”

Bilbo panicked. Could he never say anything right to this dwarf? “N-no! I’m sorry, that’s not what I meant at all. Just, I didn’t expect to see the lot of you, again, after yesterday. I suppose. Erm.”

Luckily he was spared anymore floundering, as Kili took the chance to tug at Bilbo’s sleeve.

“Mister Bilbo – may we call you Bilbo?” At his nod, Kili grinned impishly. “Oin was saying that you were really particularly skilled with your spellwork last night. I always thought that hobbits didn’t use wands?”

Bilbo frowned. “What gave you that impression?”

“Is that not true, then? What about hobbits not seeing very well in the daylight, because you live underground, in little tunnels, like moles?”

“Moles!”

“He doesn’t mean any offense,” Fili broke in, reaching one hand around Thorin to pat Bilbo’s arm – which had the unfortunate side-effect of pushing Thorin closer to Bilbo – while aiming a spoon at Kili’s head. “It’s only that we’ve heard many things about hobbits, without knowing anything about them at all. Your people are a bit like faery stories, for us. Do you know, I one time read a story about a hobbit that was ten feet tall, and lived with cave trolls?”

Bilbo gasped. “You never!”

“Oh aye, I know that one!” Bofur cut in. “Didn’t the hobbit end up eating them?”

“What, eat _cave trolls_?” Unsure whether to laugh or be offended, Bilbo looked to Fili. “You can’t be serious?”

“No truly! All we’d ever heard about hobbits was Bullroarer Took – and even that we weren’t certain was true. Obviously some of the stories got a few things wrong.”

“I once heard a story where the hobbit was no bigger than a dormouse!”

“Now really, that’s hardly a kind thing to say!”

“And that they couldn’t do any magic besides charms.”

“Excuse me!”

“And that they hadn’t any hair at all except on their feet – but it’s closer to wire than hair, and –”

“Now _really_!”

“Those tales are obviously incorrect,” Thorin surprised Bilbo by interrupting the frankly astonishing flow of hobbit-misconceptions. “And do us no credit to hold by them.”

Dwalin laughed. “Oh come now, Thorin! You used to love hobbit-tales! Your favorite one was the one where –”

“I should think,” said Thorin very firmly, “that in the presence of an _actual_ hobbit, we would have tact enough to avoid saying such things, or even thinking them. Is it not wiser to get to know Mister Baggins himself, rather than insult him with presuppositions?”

The table fell into a chastened silence, and Bilbo couldn’t help but stare wide-eyed up at Thorin. “Thank you,” he said candidly.

Thorin looked down at Bilbo from the corner of his eye warily and said nothing, but Bilbo thought he saw the tiniest gentling at the edge of the dwarf’s mouth.

“Mr. Baggins!” chirped a high voice, which turned out to belong to Rosie Romas. “Sorry to interrupt, but Miss Grimdela needs you to unlock the dormitory rooms again. The eagle’s thought of a really good one this time around!”

With a harrumph and one last final grab at the bread basket, Bilbo reluctantly left the table. “Thank you,” he said to the dwarves gathered. “For saving me a seat, and some food. And for," Bilbo paused, unsure of how to properly say _Thank you. I hadn't even realized I was lonely._ "I, erm.” He tried very hard not to look at Thorin. Rosie began to pull at his arm, whispering about needing to finish her homework before it got too late. “I suppose I’ll see you all sometime later.”

“Tomorrow.” Thorin’s low voice surprised Bilbo, distracting him from Rosie’s plucking at his sleeve.

Baffled and rushed, Bilbo nodded - “Alright then. Tomorrow.” - and he'd hardly finished speaking before he was bustled neatly away. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay - I struggled for a while on whether or not to continue this story. I owe a great deal of thanks to all of your wonderful comments! Knowing that there were people reading and waiting on the next part of the story got me going again! You all are amazing. :)


	7. To a Point

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so humbled by the amount of interest in this fic. This story has broken 200 kudos! I never expected that to happen - and it's all thanks to all of your encouragement and feedback. Thank you all so much for continuing to read and review. Here's the next chapter, which I am going to dedicate to Ewebean, for her highly motivational and inspirational artwork.

The only person who looked forward to Professor Gandalf’s Pilgrimage and Service class even less than the collective body of Hogwarts, was Professor Gandalf himself.

He made no secret of it.

“I am known by many names in many tongues, and by many deeds in many places. I am the Grey Pilgrim, the Happy Traveler, Stormcrow, Tharkûn, Mithrandir, and Greyhame. Firebearer and Path Walker. Day Bringer and Breaker of the Shadows.

“They do not call me ‘Gandalf the Lecturer’ or ‘Page Turner’ or even ‘He of the Forefront Desk.’” The grey wizard stopped, surveyed his class of gaping seventh years, and said: “Any guesses as to why?”

It did not seem to be a question, and so no one dared reply. From the back of the classroom, Thorin Oakenshield dared to raise one imperiously unimpressed eyebrow, and next to him Bilbo Baggins shot him a quelling look in response.  

“The reason why,” Gandalf continued, “and I should think this obvious, is because none of those names are me. I am not your professor. Do not address me as such. I am not here to teach you. Teach you!” Gandalf’s long dusty sleeves flew into the air as he gestured impatiently. “Pilgrimage and Service – am I to teach you how to be a pilgrim? How to be a servant? What fool cannot journey that has two feet, or cannot raise his hands to help if he has them? Pilgrimage and servitude are parts of _life_! If these are things you do not know, cannot learn with your own common sense, or for which you have no desire, then leave this room, and I shall be glad to see you go.”

There was a long moment, wherein not a student moved or spoke or did anything other than gaze open-mouthed at Gandalf, who in turn watched the room expectantly. It seemed to Bilbo that the wizard managed to look at the entire class at once, all while looking each student directly in the eye.

When more than a minute had passed, the scowling thunder eased from Gandalf’s brow, and the old wizard smiled genially.

“In that case, welcome to the first day of class.” Gandalf plucked his pointy grey hat off from the center of the desk, grabbed his gnarled branch of a staff, and tipped his head. “It is also the last. You are dismissed.”

This, finally, earned a response beyond dumbstruck wonder. From the front of the class, two Ravenclaw girls cried out in indignation, and beside them a goblin from Slytherin struck the table with a frustrated scowl.

“You were right,” Thorin muttered out of the corner of his mouth. “He is a very strange wizard.”

Bilbo blushed, and did his best to keep his attention at the front of the room.

“Are you just going to leave us?” Lobelia was demanding, voice thick with disapproval. “I’ve never heard of such a thing! Just how are we meant to pass without you?” Around her students nodded, and the hobbits of the room in particular seemed scandalized at this very improper professor-behavior.  

"My dear diminutive girl." Lobelia's cheeks puffed out like an offended toad's. "Did you not hear a word I just said? Or perhaps you are the single soul in all this school who has not heard of the late Harry Potter?

“Think, my girl, think! There is no great puzzle to the name. Pilgrimage and Service: and you must choose between the two. I cannot teach you what you will do with the second half of your year. Will you travel as Harry Potter did? You may choose to journey to the Greenwood with Professor Scrump to aid in his collection of mandrake roots, or perhaps do as Neville Longbottom did and remain here to do your good. You may aid Master Eammon in the renovations of the eighth dungeon, if you choose. And choose you must! There were two groups of Dumbledore’s Army directly responsible for the survival of Hogwarts – those who remained at the school to do what good they could, and those who went out into the world, to learn it and protect it firsthand.

“I shall not hold classes encased in stuffy walls – I am not named for such things.” Thorin snorted quietly, and Bilbo amazed that even such a rude gesture as that looked elegant when done by the regal dwarf. If Gandalf heard, he gave no notice. “Rather, look to me as your mentor. Should our paths cross (and you may wish to seek me out at times), I will give you direction. If by the end of the Yule you have not come to your decision, then you shall be held back for another year. If by the start of the New Year you have not begun your project, then you shall be held back for another year. It is simple, and I am amazed that such an explanation must be given at the start of every year.

“Good day.” And so Professor Gandalf – or, that is to say, simply Gandalf – neatly left the room, with the door wide open behind him. For a while they stared at the empty doorway, perhaps waiting for Gandalf to return, but when no sign of such came, one-by-one the students began to pack up their bags, and gradually chatter began to fill the emptying room.

“Well that wasn’t so bad at all!” Bilbo chirped happily to Thorin, who stood silently by as Bilbo packed his small leather notebook back into his bag. Bilbo was still not sure what exactly Thorin was doing in this class, or what the mysterious dwarf intended to do next. When he himself had arrived that morning, Bilbo had been surprised – and nervously pleased – to see Thorin seated in the back of the room. The dwarf had chosen a table in the very back corner, and all other students were giving him a wide berth.  

For a moment, Bilbo had dithered. Should he take the seat next to Thorin? The dinner last night had felt almost…friendly, and Bilbo had been in such a good mood that even the eagle had noticed.

“What’s got you so cheery, Baggins?” it had asked as Bilbo had approached, stumbling, behind a pulling Rosie Romas. Though its stony expression could not change, the eagle’s eyes had appeared to widen slightly before it squawked: “No wait –”

But it had been too late. “That’s easy,” Bilbo’d said. “I’m having a good evening, is all.”

Irritated, the eagle had snapped its beak, but it did graciously open the door, and Rosie had climbed into the room with a giggle, Bilbo happily behind her.

And he _had_ been in a good mood – all because of a gaggle of dwarves keeping him company during dinner. Bilbo wasn’t used to it, to such loud and aggressively affectionate gestures, but that hadn’t meant he’d not liked it.

And so he’d dithered. The Took part of him had insisted that, if he wanted to be Thorin Oakenshield’s friend, then he ought to sit next to the dwarf and keep him company. His Baggins blood, however, had insisted that no good ever came of fraternizing with rowdy dwarves (even if their eyes were a lovely shade of blue, and their shoulders impossibly wide), and he ought to leave well enough alone.

“Bagginses are polite, and Tooks are courageous,” Bilbo had reminded himself. “And a Ravenclaw cannot leave a puzzle unsolved.” And so he’d plucked up his courage to do the courteous thing and sit beside Thorin Oakenshield, and perhaps uncover what the dwarf was doing in Gandalf’s class in the first place.  

“Were you expecting something different, then?” Thorin asked, trailing after Bilbo as the latter left the room.

“Well no,” Bilbo adjusted his bag and wondered if Thorin were following Bilbo specifically, or if he too wanted to go to the library. “And yes, I suppose. Gandalf is a bit eccentric, remember I told you before class started. But I was expecting him to rattle on about Stone Giants and adventures and the like; and instead he gives us a free period to figure things out for ourselves. Not so bad at all, I’d say!”

Thorin nodded thoughtfully, and again fell into step behind Bilbo. “I believe it was much the same when he came as delegate to Erebor. He spent much of his time roaming the halls, or wandering out-of-doors. It was very difficult for m – for my king to ever speak with him.”

Bilbo laughed. “That sounds very irritating!”

“Indeed,” Thorin crossed his arms protectively over his chest, as if subconsciously guarding something. “Yet wherever there were decisions being made, or conflicts needing resolution, Tharkûn would appear to say his piece. I imagine it will be much the same for this class.”

This was better, Bilbo thought. Even if the conversation was stilted and slightly awkward – and even though he had no idea why Thorin was following him in the first place – Bilbo counted it as progress.

“Are…” Bilbo turned round. Thorin lingered a few steps behind, his gaze on the stone arched ceilings with interest, not quite near enough to be walking with Bilbo, but close enough to make the hobbit very aware of his intimidating presence. “Are you going to the library as well?”

“Ah.” Thorin stopped, looking about. “I – no. I have a previous engagement.”

Bilbo nodded and, when Thorin made no move to leave, gave a small wave. “Well it was good to see you again. I'm sorry that the class was not more interesting for you.”

Instead of returning the farewell, Thorin bristled, hands deep within the pockets of his royal blue robe (did he not wear anything else?), and scowled at Bilbo, whose knee-jerk response was offense at the rude gaze; but then the hobbit remembered that unhappiness seemed to be the baseline expression for this dwarf, and perhaps what seemed like a glare was simply a look of determination.

That certainly seemed the case, for Thorin soon sighed and admitted, “I am meant to meet my nephews at the Quidditch Fields. I would greatly appreciate it, if you would accompany me there.”

“Certainly! I have time. Lost again?” Bilbo blurted without thinking, smile dropping from his face the instant he said the words. Could he never be civil to this dwarf?

Thorin’s mouth twisted, as if he’d bitten into a lemon, but he did not say anything. Instead he sighed again, gestured for Bilbo to lead on, and the two walked side-by-side through the halls.

“I am not senseless,” Thorin said at last after a long and slightly awkward silence. Bilbo, who had been somewhat distracted by the intricate braids hanging round the dwarf’s head, did not respond right away; which Thorin seemed to take as a prompt. “All dwarves have stone-sense. In Erebor, where I have studied, our classes are held deep within the mountain, and no dwarf could ever lose their way.”

He reached out to run a large hand over the corridor’s walls as they walked. “Your school is made of stone unearthed. It cannot give direction like this, though it does try. It can be very…disorienting.”

Bilbo chose not to mention that none of the other dwarves seemed to have this problem. Instead, he inwardly rejoiced. These were more words than Bilbo had heard out of Thorin in all the days he'd known him – and so interesting! He seized upon the topic. “I’ve never heard much of Erebor, I’m afraid. Maybe only a little more than you’ve all heard of hobbits.” He grinned tentatively at this meager attempt at humor, and was gratified to see that Thorin’s mouth had softened into his not-quite smile again. “What is it like?”

Finally, _finally_ , Bilbo had – to use a dwarvish saying – struck mithril. The awkward formality of Thorin’s bearing eased away, and he seemed a dwarf transported as he talked with enthusiastic force on the beauty, strength, and magic of Erebor.

“At the very heart of the mountain,” Thorin was saying just as the high hoops of the Quidditch field came into view. “There are stones which our legends say are inscribed with the runes from which all dwarven magic stems. Every dwarf that sets foot in the mountain imbibes that magic. Or so they say.”

“Hm,” said Bilbo, a stray thought catching his brain. That bit sounded awfully familiar – he made a note to look it up in the library later that evening. “So dwarfs prefer to work their magic underground?”

“Not particularly,” Thorin shrugged. “That is simply where they will feel the most comfortable. No dwarf could be at ease, without solid stone beneath their feet.”

“I… I don’t know that I believe you.” Bilbo’s gaze was stuck on a point high above Thorin’s head, eyes wide. Thorin’s heavy brows came down with confusion, and he seemed about to ask for clarification, when a bright voice called from above.

“It’s marvelous, Uncle!” Kili shouted, brown hair flapping wildly in the wind and a grin stretched wide across his face. He was flying, perched on a school-issued broomstick, dipping, flipping, and rolling in the air. Bilbo almost screamed as the young dwarf rocketed past, kicking up their robes and blowing dust into their faces.

“Ah.” Thorin watched his nephew with wonder. “Well, _most_ dwarves prefer stones beneath their feet. There’s no accounting for idiots. KILI!” He boomed at the sky. “If you break your neck, your mother will have mine to match!”

Kili could not hear him, or perhaps he chose to ignore. Regardless, he let out another whoop as he shot between Thorin and Bilbo, this time close enough that Thorin reached out to pull Bilbo out of harm’s way.

“Well!” thought Bilbo, heart racing as he was held close against Thorin’s chest. Warm, solid, and safe – Bilbo had never been embraced like this before. “It’s not an _embrace_!” he thought scathingly. “Honestly!”The dwarf was taller, of course, than he, but not uncomfortably so; Bilbo had to fight a strange suicidal part of his brain that called him to wrap his arms around Thorin in turn. Instead, coughing awkwardly, he pulled away, rubbing at a spot on his forehead that had slammed against something wide, round, and very hard on Thorin’s chest.

“Th-thanks,” he stammered, frowning when he felt a tiny bump rising on his head. “I hit my head on something – are you wearing a necklace beneath your robes?”

The question’s effect on Thorin was instant and severe. His face, flushed red from shouting at Kili, drained of all color and expression, leaving behind a stony and determined silence.

Was it an insult, then, to ask dwarves about their jewelry? Bilbo panicked for a moment, before Thorin’s face broke again, eyes snapping up as Kili prepared to barrel past again. With a movement too quick for Bilbo to follow, he snatched at the tails of Kili’s robes, and dug in his feet.

Kili pulled up short, laughing, his broom pointing practically straight up into the air. “Oh, hello Bilbo!” he said merrily, before the broom overbalanced and he was dumped flat on his back. “Ooof!” He blinked up at the sky and laughed again, “Oh, that was brilliant! You ought to give it a try!”

Whether he meant Bilbo, Thorin, or both, Bilbo was unsure, but it hardly seemed to matter. “A Baggins does not fly,” he said very firmly, taking a step back in case the young dwarf decided it would be fun to test that theory.

“And what about a Took?” How Kili had learned that his mother had been a Took – were the dwarves _spying_ on him for some reason??? – Bilbo did not know. He would not admit that Belladonna Took had been one of the greatest Chasers to come out of Gryffindor, or that he had in his youth always secretly yearned to fly, if only once or twice.

“A Baggins does not fly,” he repeated, now half-hidden behind Thorin in what he hoped was a casual manner.

“Well has a Baggins ever tried?” Kili wheedled, getting to his feet and brushing the grass from his robes. “Come on, I wouldn’t go very fast at all –”

“Kili,” cut in Thorin dangerously. “Where is your brother?”

Kili waved a hand in the air. “I told him to go fetch Ori. We’re gonna convince him to give it a go, too.”

Poor Professor Ori! He did not seem the type to enjoy broom-flying. “You can’t pull him away from his classes,” Bilbo protested. “Especially not to go careening about on a shoddy piece of wood!”

But Thorin simply nodded. “Excellent,” he said. “I needed to take Ori’s counsel soon.”

“He’s not the only one.” Kili gestured pointedly at Bilbo. “Have you asked him yet?”

“Asked me what?”

“Kili,” Thorin said, voice sharp. “Get back on your broom.”

The young dwarf sighed, but obligingly brought the broom back up to his hand. “’Kili get off that broom,’” he mocked good-naturedly. “’Kili get back on that broom. Kili get down from there or you’ll break your neck. Kili go down into the dark cursed dungeon. Kili – ’”

“Kili," said Thorin with a hint of a smile. "Stop talking.”

The younger dwarf surprisingly did as he was told, taking to the air again with a cheerful salute. This time he did not, as Bilbo had put it, careen about; but instead proved himself a rather capable flyer.

“He’s rather good,” Bilbo remarked as Kili circled and spiraled the large Quidditch hoops with ease. “Does he fly very often?”

“Not as much as he would like, it would seem.” Thorin rubbed at his forehead. “He’s quite young still, despite being of age. He and his brother seem determined to be as non-traditional as possible, before –”

“Before?” Bilbo prompted. When no response was forthcoming, and seeing how uncomfortable Thorin had become (Bilbo was getting better at interpreting the frowns), he hastily changed the subject. “What did Kili mean, that you needed to ask me something?”

Again, Thorin sighed, and Bilbo began to suspect that – despite his regal appearance, grave features, and dark bearing – Thorin Oakenshield was quite overdramatic.

“I am told,” he started, arms crossed again over his chest. “By Balin and Ori both, that you are of a scholarly bend.”

Bilbo puffed out his chest. “Well, I _am_ in Ravenclaw,” he pointed out, adjusting his blue-striped tie. Thorin zeroed in on the movement, and for a moment a hint of some kind of emotion – Happiness? Approval? Intense…something or another? – flickered in his eyes.

“Indeed.” He rumbled lowly, “And Ori made particular mention of your aptitude with languages.”

Bilbo was going to bake Professor Ori a cake. “Yes, a bit,” he demurred, though the humble effect may have been ruined by his smug grin. Nobody was better at languages in his entire year! It was a point of pride for Bilbo.

Thorin nodded, another hint of a smile drifting round his mouth, and reached into an inner pocket within his cloak. “You are sure to recognize this.” A carefully folded piece of parchment, rather old, was unrolled; and sure enough, Bilbo recognized the map that he’d stolen for the dwarves not two days ago.

“There is a message here,” Thorin gestured at the runes on the far left side of the map. “Or a spell of some sort. It is written in an ancient language – if you could even recognize one character, then that would be a clue enough for us to move forward. Until then, we are stuck.”

Stuck? Bilbo tried not to raise his eyebrows. Beyond them, Kili had taken to climbing up past the castle's turrets, before falling down in a dive, almost skimming along the walls. It looked like he were simply doing it for fun, but Bilbo had sharp eyes, and it looked very much as if Kili were looking in on windows.

Bilbo had been wondering for the past few days, what exactly these dwarves were doing in Hogwarts. Their relationship to each other seemed strange – that the dwarven professors were so accommodating, particularly to Thorin, was quite odd. A suspicion had begun to unfold in Bilbo’s mind. After all, he was not a Ravenclaw for nothing; and he had a feeling that he could solve this puzzle quite easily, with just a few more hints.

 “Well, that hardly sounds so very exciting," he digressed.

Thorin raised a dark eyebrow. "If you'll pardon my saying so," he spoke quietly, so as to not be overheard. Silly, considering they were the only ones on the green. "I don't believe I've ever seen you look more interested in anything."

Bilbo flushed. "No respectable hobbit would do so," he muttered, but then rallied. "A Ravenclaw would though, I suppose. Well, let me take a look then.” Truly, Bilbo had spent enough time in the library two nights ago, doing nothing but look at this map. It was not particularly impressive. It was dwarven, obviously: a fact given away by the attention brought to the geography’s mountain ranges. At the upper left corner, Bilbo had recognized the river Bruinen and had thought, “Rivendell!” before Nori had grabbed his attention with another spell.

Now with no distractions, Bilbo saw that the a path of sorts had been marked out from the valley across many leagues, nothing in terms of lines or footprints, but in ravens. The black birds, typical of dwarven decoration, dotted the map in a way that seemed stylish. However, Bilbo saw that the ravens all faced specific directions, their beaks pointing first away from one forest, and then towards another. Some birds took wing, winding towards and away from a mountain range and then over an inconspicuous lake marked in very old runes.

It was a clever map, designed to show a way without drawing attention to the fact; but Bilbo could not read it.

“But,” he said hurriedly when Thorin appeared disheartened by the news. “I know someone who can. Come with me.”

 

 

* * *

“Baggins!” The eagle knocker croaked as Thorin and Bilbo approached the Ravenclaw dormitory. “Walk on me in life, I’ll make no protest. But I’ll hiss and I’ll cry, should you walk on me in death.”

“Leaves, first in Spring then in Autumn.” Bilbo replied easily. “And good morning.”

Thorin made a noise of astonishment, as the runes round the eagle’s neck melted and flowed to create the doorway. “This is excellent work,” he said coming forward to look more closely. “Dwarvish, in fact. Little wonder.”

Bilbo watched as Thorin ran one heavily ringed finger along the edge of the doorway, tracing the glowing runes there, and then – looking around to make sure that nobody else was in the corridor – Bilbo set out to do what no other student in Ravenclaw had done: he stood before the eagle knocker, and made an introduction. “Thorin,” he said. “This is…”

He faltered. Blast! The knocker had no name, as far as Bilbo knew – nobody _talked_ to it outside of answering its questions. Still, an introduction must be made, and Bilbo could hardly say, “This is the knocker that asks me riddles.”

“This is the great eagle,” he finished smoothly, “that guards the Ravenclaw dormitories. And this,” he said to the eagle. “Is – ”

“Thorin Oakenshield,” the eagle head rasped, one large stone eye rolled to stare at the dwarf. “I know you well, though you do not know it. There is little which I do not.”

Undeterred, Thorin stared right back at the eagle. “You speak in riddles,” he said, as if coming to an unpleasant revelation. It was the same tone Bilbo's father had used, whenever Bilbo would come inside from exploring. _"You've mud on your shirt,"_ Bungo would say, as if this were a great offense indeed. Thorin, it seemed, thought just as highly of riddles as Bungo Baggins had thought of messes.

This may not go so well, after all.

“Contractually,” the eagle replied in matching monotone. “Well what are you waiting for? In you go. Though what a hobbit is doing bringing a dwarf to his rooms, I cannot say.”

Heat suffused Bilbo’s face, and Thorin looked at him with a very odd expression indeed. “Oh,” said Bilbo. “No. Nothing like…like _that_. For heaven’s sake it’s barely ten in the morning!” Belatedly realizing this made no sense whatsoever, Bilbo pressed on.“We’ve actually not come to get inside the dorms, er, sir. Um, it’s more…Well, like you said earlier, there’s little you don’t know, and we have a bit of a question for _you_ , if you wouldn’t mind.”

“This is your answer?” hissed Thorin from behind. “It is nothing more than an enchanted piece of rock, with runes for cleverness and protection beat into its neck. It just sits there all day. How can it know anything of anything?”

“A fair question on its own,” the eagle said with little emotion, though Bilbo got the impression that it was angry. “And I shall answer your riddle with another. How can nothing more than a piece of meat and bones, bloated with air and fat, walk about and know anything about anything?”

Thorin glowered, and the knocker fell silent, and Bilbo realized that he had just introduced the precise wrong sorts to each other. “Thorin,” he said a little desperately. “May I have the map?”

Still glaring at the eagle, which in turn appeared highly unimpressed, Thorin checked the corridor for eavesdroppers and held the map up to the eagle. “Do you understand the runes here?” he asked before Bilbo could stop him.

“Yes,” said the eagle.

“Thorin wait – ”

“What are they?”

Bilbo buried his face in his hands as the eagle replied. “A spell.”

Hands trembling around the edge of the parchment, Thorin grit his teeth and asked: “And what does the spell say?”

But the knocker would not respond. “Three questions now you’ve asked of me, and two answers I have given. If you wish to know the third, then you may answer me five on your own.”

“Five!” Thorin repeated incredulously as Bilbo groaned.

“I tried to warn you,” he mumbled. “The eagle is very literal. Well, we can work together, at least, I hope.”

“Not so,” it clicked, and then without any further ado it began. “Thorin Oakenshield. Self-sustaining, I grow short as I age, and die when I consume myself.”

For a beat, Thorin continued to glare at the eagle; but even Thorin Oakenshield could not out-glower solid stone, and so he shifted back on his heels to think.

Bilbo cleared his throat loudly, and rolled his eyes to the unlit torches along the walls. Thorin followed his gaze, and frowned. “Fire?” he thought aloud, voice soft. “Wood.” He paused, and his eyes cleared. “A candle.” He declared it proudly, and Bilbo refused to find Thorin’s smugness amusing.

The eagle gave no reply, only sharpened its gaze on Bilbo. “Baggins. What is a Horcrux?”

“What!” Thorin’s shout echoed in the empty halls. “That is no riddle!”

“It’s alright,” Bilbo said, thinking back to his lessons. “It’s going to ask us _questions_. Not necessarily riddles.”

“I can answer this one easily,” Thorin insisted, and Bilbo scoffed.

“As can I! A Horcrux,” he told the eagle. “Is an object of dark magic which contains a fragment of the soul of its creator that was split – or torn – through an act of murder.”

“Thorin Oakenshield. How do you destroy a Horcrux?”

Thorin’s scowl grew thunderous, and he crossed his arms protectively across his chest. “Through incurable means. Basilisk venom. Fiendfyre. Any magical object which has been imbued with either. It can be –”

“Your first answer was enough. Baggins. What happens when you destroy a Horcrux?”

Thorin gave out a growl which quickly turned to a shout. “We need not answer such idiotic questions! Come. We shall seek our answer elsewhere.”

“Where did you have in mind?” Bilbo snapped back, taken aback at Thorin’s sudden anger. “Consider yourself lucky! These are easy. Once I had to give a dissertation on the effects of hinkypunk integration into new ecosystems.” To the eagle, he gave his answer. “Destroying a Horcrux releases the soul fragment that was inside of it – you need to defeat both the Horcrux and the soul, before it can be truly destroyed.”

“Correct. And remember it. Baggins,” the eagle said again. “Tear me off and scratch my head. What once was red is black instead.”

This riddle was so easy – and such a diversion from the questions before – that it threw Bilbo off. He hesitated, but not so long to risk his reputation. “A match,” he said. “Easy.”

The eagle did not dignify that with a response, but recited, eyes staring blankly ahead:

 

_Stand by the grey stone when the thrush knocks and the setting sun with the last light of Durin’s Day will shine upon the door._

 

“Is that it? Is that the spell?” Bilbo asked, and Thorin demanded, “Say it again!”

But the knocker had fallen silent, and nothing Thorin or Bilbo could say or do would make it speak again. 

 

 

* * *

“Do you remember all of it?” Bilbo asked, trotting to keep up with Thorin’s long strides as they descended the spiral staircases of the tower. Around them, the first classes of the day were letting out into passing period. Bilbo had time for tea, just before his next class. Thank goodness he’d done his work the night before! There would be no concentrating on anything else, after this.

“Of course,” Thorin answered, gaze steadfast ahead as he walked, lost in some deep thought. “’Stand by the grey stone when the thrush knocks and the setting sun with the last light of Durin’s Day will shine upon the door.’ More riddles,” he grumbled to himself. “Hardly a spell at all. Still,” he came back to himself. “It is far closer than we have been before. You have saved us again.” He looked down at Bilbo and smiled. “I am further in your debt, Bilbo Baggins.”

“No, not at all,” Bilbo waved his hand in front of his nose, ignoring the way his heart pounded in his chest. “Now is your chance, Bilbo Baggins,” he thought to himself and, steeling his nerves, said aloud with nonchalance, “That’s what friends are for, I suppose.”

Silence. Bilbo looked up, furtive, through his curls. Thorin looked surprised, though not offended, and after a pause he said slowly, “Yes. So it is.”

Together they reached the bottom of the staircase, and lingered, not quite smiling at each other.

“Well, I have to get to class. Um. Save me a seat at lunch, will you?”

Thorin nodded seriously, as if given a great task. “I will ensure that Bofur does not eat all of your food.”

Bilbo laughed. “You do that, thanks!” His heart had stopped pounding, though now it seemed to be trying to crawl up Bilbo’s throat. He felt giddy with his success, and before he could make a fool of himself and say exactly what he was thinking (“I think we’ll come to be _such_ good friends!”), he waved goodbye, turned tail, and hurried in the opposite direction.

And so it happened that Bilbo Baggins, in his seventh year at Hogwarts, made his first true friend, and with that one came many others. The irony did not escape Bilbo, that he who had been quite determined to avoid the dwarves at any cost, had found himself quite happily an honorary member of their company.


	8. Secrets Unlocked

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It seemed that for every riddle Bilbo solved about these dwarves, five more arose in its place.

By the time the leaves had turned their colors, and spider webs and carved pumpkins had started lining the halls and dungeons of the school, Bilbo Baggins had become quite the expert on keeping the company of dwarves.

It was no easy task. Dwarves were loud. They smelled. They glowered. They _imposed_ , with their songs and jokes and rough brawls.

Hobbits, as a general rule, were much milder creatures. They tended to shun many of the very things which dwarves seemed to so heartily enjoy. Impositions, dangerous interruptions and demands on time – not to mention a distressing lack of common table manners – such things were considered wholly abhorrent for the typical hobbit.

Bilbo Baggins, as the past few months had proved, was not a typical hobbit.

This was lucky for him, especially since the dwarves of Erebor seemed determined to invade every aspect of Bilbo’s life, whether he liked it or not. Though they left him be for tea, elevensies, and luncheon; the dwarves always saved Bilbo a seat for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, when he wasn’t too caught up in his work to remember the meals.

(Perhaps “saved” a seat is too kind a way to put it. More appropriate may be “demanded.” The day after he’d helped Thorin read his map, Bilbo had made the mistake of attempting to sit alone at the Ravenclaw table. Such an outcry went up from Fili and Kili – and, surprisingly, Dori – that ever since the dwarves had taken to glaring the poor hobbit down until he hurried over to their end of the table.)

Their influence was not confined to meals, for the dwarves had invaded not only Bilbo’s routine, but that of Hogwarts as well.

“Ho, Bilbo!” Hamfast Gamgee waved in the halls just after breakfast. “Not staying for second breakfast?”

Hardly breaking his quick stride, Bilbo turned and waved. “I’m afraid not! Promised to help some of the dwarves study before class – their charm work is shameful really.” He gave another cheery wave, and meant to go on, but Hamfast’s sudden frown drew Bilbo up short.

“Hamfast?” he asked, “is everything all right?”

“Hm.” A worry line had creased between the other hobbit’s eyebrows. “It’s nothing, Bilbo. Only…” He pursed his mouth in deliberation, and motioned for Bilbo to join him off to the side of the halls. A few students milled about here and there, but the two diminutive hobbits were given very little attention. Still, Hamfast lowered his voice until Bilbo had to lean close to hear. “You’ve gotten awful close with them dwarves lately, haven’t you?”

Bilbo scowled.

This was not the first time he’d been asked that question. What was so wrong, he thought, about him finding friends where before there’d been none? And fine friends they were, as well!

Certainly, their manners were a bit strange, and perhaps they were more rambunctious than Bilbo sometimes knew how to handle, but they were very decent folk! Who could look down on Dwalin, who had without prompting set up remedial Defense Against the Dark Arts classes for struggling students; or Bifur, who made a point to look after the smaller first-years when they were frightened or homesick?

What about Fili and Kili, who themselves had become extremely popular among the student body (especially after last week’s announcement of the Yule Ball); or Thorin, who also had no shortage of admirers and who – despite his solemn manner – had joined Bilbo in his tutoring lessons to supplement Professor Balin’s history lectures?

All of them, excellent friends; and Bilbo had quite frankly had enough of the side-eyeing and whispering going on in some houses! Bristling, he put his nose in the air and frowned. “Yes! I have!”

“I don’t mean no offense!” Hamfast raised his hands. “Just, be careful, that’s all I’m saying. There’s some nasty rumors about that group going ‘round. I’d hate you to be caught up in ‘em, is all.”

Bilbo sighed. “I’ve heard them.” And really, what had he expected? He wasn’t the only person who’d been suspicious at the dwarves’ arrival at Hogwarts, and while Bilbo had discovered a few of their secrets – one in particular he was waiting to confront Thorin over – he still didn’t quite know why they were _here_ in the first place.

Some rumors went around that The Lonely Mountain was running low on resources, and that the dwarves were here to find weak points in Hogwarts’ defense, so as to invade and expand Erebor.

The goblins theorized darkly that the dwarves – “in typical dwarf fashion” – were after some sort of secret treasure hidden deep within the school.

Bilbo dismissed both of these claims, particularly the latter, as being the result of residual bad-feeling between goblins and dwarves. As Bofur had put it one day, when Grimdela had gruffly declined to sit at breakfast with them, many goblins were still sore over the superiority of dwarven treasure and craftsmanship. Grimdela however, when Bilbo had confronted her on this, insisted that dwarves were grungy copycats who only made treasure after the goblins made it first.

Bilbo very wisely did not offer his opinion on the matter. 

“They’re just here to learn, Hamfast. You ought to put a stop to talk of anything else.”

The other hobbit had the decency to look abashed. “Maybe so, but be careful all the same! You should hear the sort of things Lobelia’s been saying – downright salacious, if you ask me!”

“Salacious?” Bilbo’s stomach rumbled, reminding him that Fili and Kili were waiting for him in the courtyard – and that they’d promised to bring food. Still, his curiosity had been piqued; and he was a Ravenclaw, after all. “What do you mean, salacious?”

Immediately, it became obvious that Hamfast regretted bringing it up. “Oh, just a bunch of codswallop,” he hedged, face suspiciously red as he shifted on his feet. “Just, you know, nasty things about you and all those late-night study sessions with that one handsome dwarf. Awful cozy, Lobelia was saying. Among –” he cleared his throat awkwardly. “Among other things.”

“ _What_?!” Bilbo sputtered. “With, with _Thorin_?!” To his mortification, Bilbo felt his cheeks burn red. “That’s preposterous! Absolutely outrageous! We’re, we’re just _studying_ Hamfast!”

And it was true! After his first week at Hogwarts, Thorin had approached Bilbo with an apparently sullen – but what Bilbo had later learned was embarrassed – request that the hobbit help Thorin with some of the dwarf’s studies.

It wasn’t any different than the tutoring he gave Fili and Kili over charms, or the extra time he spent with Oin developing potions! Any extra enjoyment Bilbo got out of studying with Thorin was purely his business! It was hardly fault that in return, Thorin told Bilbo stories of Erebor, which the hobbit found so interesting that the two of them often lost track of time.

And besides, the other dwarves made many demands on Thorin’s time. It was hardly Bilbo’s fault that he jealously guarded and valued their time spent together. It didn’t _mean_ anything! Just because Thorin was handsome, and interesting, and extremely kind, didn’t mean that Bilbo intended to, to _take advantage_ of him or anything like that! Just the thought alone…Bilbo’s heart pounded wildly, and he felt the flush on his face spread along his ears and neck.

Thorin had become one of Bilbo's best friends at Hogwarts! True, it had taken some time for to grow used to each other, but Bilbo would never forget the first time Thorin had successfully used his wand - new, as apparently dwarves did not practice wandwork traditionally - to perform a levitating spell. The dwarf's face had lit up, blue eyes almost sparkling as under his direction piles and piles of books floated into the air; followed shortly by a squawking Bilbo. It had been the first time the two of them had truly laughed together, and though Thorin's moments of levity were few and far between, Bilbo cherished them all the same. As a _friend_. 

“Sorry,” Hamfast looked equally – if not more so – embarrassed. “No one puts any stock on the idea ‘cept Lobelia and her types, anyway. It all started after Professor Galadriel made the announcement for the Yule Ball – everybody’s guessing who’s going round with who, and all that. Your name just came up, and I thought you might want to know about it.”

Thinking that Hamfast could have just as easily not brought it up at all – Bilbo _really_ didn’t need the idea hanging around his mind when he met with Thorin later this evening – Bilbo made his excuses (“Running late. I was expected ages ago, to _study_ , of course.”), turned tail, and fled, still fuming.

The idea! Thorin being a singularly attractive dwarf was no reason at all to start making up such scandalous rumors about him! Dread trickled through Bilbo’s gut. What if _Thorin_ had heard these rumors as well? Now that Bilbo thought of it, Thorin had been acting quite strange the past week, awkward and uncomfortable in a way that hadn’t made sense to Bilbo at all.

Until now.

Bother it! Bilbo had hoped that the dwarves had established themselves well enough in the school by now to avoid such gossip. And truly, they were everywhere – at least one in all of his classes.

It was strange, however, how they went about it. Instead of adopting a regular student schedule, some dwarves attended only a few classes, like Gloin with Arithmancy and Bifur in Transfiguration. Others had more rigorous time tables.

Kili, for instance, shared Bilbo’s Potions, Charms, and Defense Against the Dark Arts classes. Fili sat for all of those _and_ History of Magic, Divination, Herbology, in addition to his private lessons with Thorin – who had become a teacher’s aide to Professor Balin. Every other week or so, he led the class discussion, often over wars or treaties and the like. The lessons were fascinating, and between Thorin’s deep voice and Professor Balin’s riveting storytelling, History of Magic soon became so popular that Bilbo often had trouble finding a seat.

To the delight of several students and teachers, many of the older dwarves had followed Thorin’s example. Professor Alburn especially had been beside himself when Oin had requested to supplement his Potions lessons. Meanwhile, Nori had joined Professor Ori in Runes, and the collective grades of their classes suffered greatly under the famous Runebreaker’s challenges.

With all of them, Bilbo enjoyed his time, but a kindred spirit he’d especially found in Dori, who had zero interest in all things magical but had nevertheless taken the hobbits of Hogwarts by storm in establishing The Tea Rooms: a wonderful place serving dedicated solely to food, drink, and the discussion of fine embroidery.

Perhaps Bilbo still didn’t quite understand what had brought the dwarves so suddenly to Hogwarts, but he appreciated it all the same. Bilbo may not have been ostracized, exactly, but he’d never had close friends, before the dwarves had arrived. It was nice, more than nice, to no longer be alone.

Although, given his current position as the lone inhabitant of the courtyard, Bilbo perhaps needed to reevaluate his position.

The sundial at the center of the courtyard was well past ten – perhaps Fili and Kili had tired of waiting for him to show up? It was not a pleasant idea; Bilbo resolved to visit the kitchens and commandeer a pie or three to bring as a peace offering to the two of them later this eafternoon in Potions.

Well, he was here anyway! May as well get some work done while he was at it. Pulling out his textbook and an even foot of parchment, he got to work doing some of the more difficult translations for Professor Ori’s class.

The hours passed comfortably, though Bilbo’s stomach did give many valiant efforts to remind him of a missed teatime. Seventh year was everything Bilbo had thought it would be: fewer classes, all tailored to Bilbo’s preferences, but loads and loads of coursework on top of it. As a Ravenclaw, Bilbo didn’t mind one bit; and he luxuriated in the bright blue sky, the gentle buzz of passing students, and the crinkle of parchment beneath his wrist before a loud voice broke the tranquil air.

“Bilbo!” came a cry from beyond the courtyard.

The hobbit in question looked up, ignoring the glares of his studying peers, to see Kili – brown hair a cloud of tangles and suspicious green particles – come barreling around the corner.

“It’s a disaster,” the dwarf insisted as he came closer and took Bilbo’s arm. “I need your help!” He pulled, and Bilbo’s inkwell toppled from his knee to spill black ink all over his almost-finished, near-perfect, painstakingly-written translation of _The Voluspa_.

“ _Kili,_ ” Bilbo growled, eyes narrowed, but before he could draw the breath to yell, Fili suddenly appeared next to his brother, reaching over Kili’s shoulder with an apologetic smirk.

“Sorry Boggins,” he said, putting his fingers to the spoiled parchment. He tapped it once, twice, three times and gave a warbling whistle. The other students glared at the noise, but Bilbo did not mind at all, for all at once the ink slid off from his paper and back into the well like mice after the pied piper.

Dwarven magic! Truly remarkable! Bilbo wished he could study it more thoroughly – it seemed very few of the dwarves actually used wands; Nori, Fili, Kili, and occasionally Professor Ori being the exceptions.

“There we go,” said Fili after all the ink had gone and Bilbo’s original text was good as new. “Sorry,” he said again. “Soon as I saw Kili running through the halls, I followed as fast as I could. You know how excitable he gets after lunch. Where were you this morning, by the way? We missed you.”  

But Bilbo did not answer, instead gasping in dismay and looking to the sundial. “No!” It read a depressing quarter-til-one. “I’ve missed lunch?!”

Fili rolled his eyes toward a place in the grass near _The Voluspa_ , where Bilbo had been happily snacking on a summoned plate of pound cake before he’d been interrupted.

“That was elevensies,” said Bilbo without shame, and Kili made a low noise of indignation over Fili’s laughter.

“Bilbo!” he cried again. (One annoyed goblin gathered up her things with a huff.) “Come on – I seriously need your help.”

“Well I am sorry I couldn’t help you this morning. I was held up. But Kili,” Bilbo muttered, turning his attention back to the final paragraph of his translation. “I have such great faith in your ability to take care of yourself that I know you can handle whatever it is.”

“Either that,” added Fili. “Or Bilbo’s been desensitized to your idiocy.”

“Mmm yes that does make more sense,” Bilbo agreed, ignoring Kili’s wounded expression to draw out his wand and cast a quick drying spell on the parchment. “Kili, if I had a Knut for every time you lost your Herbology notes – ”

“ – or got stuck in the first-floor swamp – ”

“Not to mention every time you’ve needed ‘saving’ from Ori – ”

“Yeah, you really ought to stop charming his hair blue. Uncle doesn’t approve of it either.”

Forgetting the game, Bilbo looked up. “Oh, doesn’t he?” To his surprise, Kili turned a bright red, and Fili laughed before answering.

“Mm-hm. Blue’s the r- our family house’s color. Technically, Ori shouldn’t wear it unless he’s being courted by our line.”

Bilbo rolled his eyes at Fili’s slip-up while Kili sputtered. “I don’t mean it like that, I’ve told you again and again! The spell won’t work properly!”

“Tell that to Dori and Nori – they’re coming after you if it happens again.”

“Perhaps,” Bilbo suggested helpfully. “If you spent more time studying your charms instead of thinking up new ways to annoy Professor Ori, the spell would work better.”

With a scowl, Kili reached over for the rest of Bilbo’s pound cake, shoving it into his mouth with relish before Bilbo could stop him. “You two are both horrible,” he said, spewing wet crumbs all over his robes.

“ _I’m_ horrible!” Bilbo cried, carefully placing his homework into his bag and getting to his feet. “ _You’re_ the one who’s just stolen the last of my food! And on top of a missed lunch, too.” He harrumphed and Vanished the depressingly cake-free plate from the grass. “Oh well.” He looked again at the sundial. “I have time before Potions. Maybe the house elves will let me sneak some extra food again.”

“Oh I’ll come with you!” Kili got to his feet as well. “I missed lunch too.”  

“Did you?” Fili looked confused. “But we had Care of Magical Creatures together just before. What’ve you been doing in the meantime?”

Kili paused and tilted his head up to remember. When he did, it was obvious, for his eyes widened to the size of dinner plates before he grabbed Bilbo’s hand and pulled. “Shit shit shit! Come on Bilbo I need your help – our dorm rooms are melting.”

“What?” Bilbo asked.

“ _What_?!” repeated Fili, much more loudly. Without wasting a second, he grabbed Bilbo’s other hand and rushed forward with Kili. Under their combined strengths, the poor hobbit had no choice but to scarper along as fast as he could, toes barely skimming the ground as the two dwarves shot through the hallways.

“What do you mean, the dorm is melting?” Fili was shouting at Kili, not giving the other a chance to answer. “You’re always doing things like this! We can never leave you alone! Do we need to put a tracking spell on you? It’s like you’re bloody twenty years old!”

“Oin _asked_ me to add the next ingredient,” Kili bawled back at his brother, “and Bilbo wasn’t around to tell me how to cut the – oh. Sorry Embrony!” Bilbo looked over his shoulder to see a second-year wizard recollect himself off the floor, before he vanished behind a turned corner. “How was I supposed to know it would explode?”

“So this is my fault?” Bilbo huffed, arms straining as he jogged along. Indignant, he looked up from his pedaling feet to shout at Kili, only to yelp in surprise. “Look out for that suit!” he cried, too late, as Kili batted a large arrangement of medieval armor out of their way.

It fell to the ground with a clatter and a shout: “I _say_ , do watch where you’re going! Just polished the knee-plates, I did!”

“Did you just say it _exploded_?!” With an extra burst of speed – Bilbo worried for a moment his arms would pull out of their sockets – the two brothers bounded up two flights of stairs and tumbled to a halt outside a long corridor of wooden doors.

Despite Bofur’s invitations to spend the night every so often, Bilbo had never actually been to the dwarves’ dormitories before. Seven identical doors lined the stone hallway, and even though outwardly nothing distinguished them from a broom closet, Bilbo could tell which room Kili had melted.

This was not very hard; in fact, even a Gryffindor would have been suspicious of the growing greyish-green stain on the wood, not to mention to the pale sludge which was welling under the second door.

“Kili,” Fili stared at the floor with an oddly resigned sort of horror. “What did you _do_?”

“Nevermind that!” Bilbo shook his hands free and drew his wand. “What have you tried so far?”

“I tried to Vanish it,” Kili said as he walked to the door, “but it didn’t do a thing! Then it started eating through the wood of the beds, and I came to get you!”

The door came open with a sickening _slurk_ , revealing a room which in any other circumstances Bilbo would have found welcoming and comfortable. Unfortunately, the pleasant lighting and cushy furniture was slightly offset by the presence of a swelling murk of sludge in the center of the room, which bubbled out from a cauldron to creep across the floors (eating them away as it went).

“Ah no, _Kili_!” Fili’s hands fisted in his hair, clenched tight as though imagining closing around Kili’s throat. “You know how long it took Oin to put that together!” He let out a cry, and ran forward to save a deep mahogany chest from being swallowed up.

“You’re still acting as if I did this on purpose!” Kili cried.

“Oh, just!” Fed up, Fili drew his wand and leveled it at the approaching sludge, ignoring Kili’s cries of “no wait!” to shout: “ _Confringo!_ ”

A bright flash of light filled the room, and though Bilbo had shielded his eyes, it still took several moments for them to clear of spots enough for him to see that Fili’s spell had not worked one bit.

Well, perhaps that was not entirely true. The sludge, after all, was gone. Unfortunately, in its place now rose a sinister smoke, which plumed and released a putrid stench into the air.

“Oh _brilliant_ , _nadad_!” Kili shouted as the curtains closest to the smoke browned and began to disintegrate. “Excellent work, really!”

“Shut up! Just – Bilbo!” The hobbit looked up from his fruitless attempts to Vanish the smoke. “Can you open a window in the walls? We’ll just release it outside.”

Bilbo considered the curtains and ceiling, which were rapidly turning a sludgy black. Whatever the stuff was, it was most definitely toxic. “Bad idea,” he said, casting a Bubble Head charm around the three of them. “It’d probably kill every owl and raven in the surrounding area.”

“Well we can’t just let it eat through the rooms!” Kili danced from one foot to the other, avoiding the still-smoking patches of black in the carpet as he evaded his brother. “Uncle would kill me!”

“ _I’m_ going to kill you!” The two brothers, for lack of any other viable options, had abandoned the problem and turned to face each other, faces reddening beneath their beards. Fili in particular looked amazingly murderous, the smoke frizzing his beard and braids so that he resembled an angry lion on a bad hair day. “I told Thorin you were too young to come along! You always mess up _everything_!”

“And it didn’t work, did it? Because Thorin _needed_ me here! I’m the only one who can –”

“Neither of you are helping!” Bilbo cried after another unsuccessful spell. The smoke could not be charmed to stop, nor would it be Vanished, and it seemed immune to any spells of destruction.

Kili threw his arms in the air. “You’re the Ravenclaw!” He looked to Bilbo. “I thought you lot were supposed to be _clever_!”

Dismissing the urge to shout furiously at Kili – Fili was taking very good care of that, and had in fact begun an impressively profane denigration of Kili’s ancestors – Bilbo wracked his mind furiously.

“Cannot be stopped, cannot be Vanished, cannot be destroyed…” he muttered. The smoke had begun to creep down the walls, and the sickly fumes were starting to leak through the Bubble Head charm and make Bilbo’s head ache.

In the background, Fili was still yelling. “I’m not even sure you _are_ my brother! You’re more like a flobberworm transformed into a great giant nuisance of a dwarf who – ”

The words clicked in Bilbo’s brain. “Yes!” he cried, and leveled his wand at the approaching smoke. “ _Vera Verto_!” and then, “ _Ebublio_!”

The room filled with a bright purple light. It faded, and Bilbo panted with adrenaline, dismissing the Bubble Head charms with a triumphant _snap_ of his wand.

“Oh,” breathed Kili in the sudden calm of the room. “That was clever.”

“Thank you,” Bilbo straightened his tie. Above them, a large orb of swishing, simmering water tumbled over and over itself; and not a trace of smoke or sludge remained in the room.

“No really! Turn it into water, trap the water in a charm,” Kili grinned. “That’s brilliant!”

Back straightening, Bilbo’s modest shrug was betrayed by his tiny, self-satisfied smile. “We covered the bubble-trap jinx in Defense two days ago, Kili,” he demurred.

“So what do we do with the water?” Now that the danger had seemingly passed, Kili had no trouble smiling at Bilbo in a mixture of relief and admiration.

The same could not be said for Fili.

“I’ll tell you what we do with the water.” A manic glint flickered in his narrowed eyes, and Fili approached Kili with all the steadiness of a panther stalking its prey. “We’re going to take the water and open up the jinx just enough to fit your fat head into it. Then we’ll wait while you _drown_. Do you have any idea how badly that could have gone? You could have died, Kili!”

“ _Really_?” Bilbo interrupted Kili’s nervous laughter, directing the shielded water down into the expanded cauldron with increased caution. “What in the world was that potion meant to be?”

This, of all things, broke Fili’s anger, and such unbelievable look of blank, wide-eyed, innocence fell into place that Bilbo instantly frowned in suspicion.

“Oh nothing,” said Fili. He turned his wand and attention towards restoring the ruined woodwork, though his ears had pinkened. “Just an experiment of Oin’s. Nothing serious.”

“Hmmm,” Bilbo eyed the holes in the carpet, the burn marks on the ceiling, and the mangled and warped door. “Looks fairly serious to me.”

“Oh not really,” Kili fell into the act, draping an arm over Bilbo’s shoulder. “Nothing our resident Ravenclaw couldn’t handle. You know,” he said, not even bothering with subtlety as he changed the subject. “I’m really jealous over Hogwarts’ sorting system. Erebor doesn’t have anything like houses or years, you see. We’re divided by class, and then by skill. We progress from there.”

Intrigued, Bilbo allowed himself to be distracted. “But then how do you know when you’re finished with your schooling?” Both dwarves raised identical, incredulous eyebrows.

“When you’ve mastered it, of course.”

Bilbo rolled his eyes. “Of course.”

“But a sorting system,” Kili went on, grabbing those cushions and blankets charred beyond repair and shoving them beneath the beds. “That would be all sorts of interesting! We’ve already figured out Fili – he’d be a Gryffindor, of course.”

“Not a Ravenclaw?” Fili looked genuinely affronted at both Bilbo and Kili’s laughter. “What about you then?” he asked Kili.

“Gryffindor too, I’d think,” Bilbo decided. Fili, however, disagreed.

“Nah, they’d probably stick him in Slytherin.” He shoved his brother affectionately. “The snakemouth.”

“Snakemouth?” asked Bilbo, and Kili pulled in his tongue from where it had been stuck out at Fili and puffed out his chest with pride.

“I speak parseltongue,” he said smugly. Bilbo made the appropriate noises of awe. “First ever in the line of Durin.”

“First ever in the entire race, more like,” Fili drawled. “Which supports my theory that Kili’s just a Changeling bastard.”

“He’s a _late_ Changeling bastard, if he is at that,” came a sudden voice from the doorway. Professor Ori stood, his red teacher’s robes left off in favor of a simple tunic. Bilbo recognized his frown, and the way his arms crossed over his chest, from the one time Monroe Wilson had neglected to do his assignment for Runes.

“I’ve been waiting in my office for over an hour, Kili.” Professor Ori said. “Or did your rune work improve suddenly overnight so that you don’t need a tutor anymore?”

Kili turned red, suitably chastened. Professor Ori was such a gentle, kind sort – his disappointment was an awful pill to swallow. 

“Sorry Ori,” he began, but Professor Ori immediately cut him off.

“What’s _happened_?” he gawped at the room, eyes falling on Bilbo. “Bilbo! What are you doing here? Is that – is that _Oin’s potion_?”

“In Kili’s defense,” Fili – for all his earlier anger – stepped in front of his brother, “the fact that Bilbo was able to put it out proves Oin wrong. So it’s a good thing we didn’t waste our time on it!”

A look of alarm flashed across Professor Ori’s face, and Bilbo saw his eyes flicker over to the mahogany chest. In the next instant, he visibly schooled his expression into a careful neutrality that had Bilbo once again suspicious.

“Thirty points to Ravenclaw, Mr. Baggins,” Professor Ori said slowly, “for excellent thinking under pressure. If you don’t mind, I’d like to speak with Fili and Kili alone for a moment.”

Thinking fast, Bilbo tried his best apologetic smile. “Sorry Professor. I can’t move til the jinx settles – just a few more minutes. I don’t mind waiting in here, if you want to speak in the hallway.”

Professor Ori looked reluctant, and Fili and Kili turned identical pleading looks to Bilbo, but eventually the eldest dwarf sighed and reached out to grab Fili and Kili by their collars. “We won’t be more than a moment,” he assured Bilbo, dragging the two dwarves out the door behind him. The door closed, warped wood catching slightly and doing nothing to block the furious hissing of Professor Ori’s dressing-down.

Bilbo wasted no time. As soon as the door closed, he lowered his wand and hurried over to the chest. He knelt and began his inspection. Undamaged by the potion, save for a few scorch marks along the edges from smoke, it seemed perfectly innocuous. No different from any of the other chests which sat at the foot of every bed.

Except _this_ one, Bilbo noticed, had a lock.

It was small, and barely noticeable, but there amidst the geometrical decoration covering the lid was carved _secret_ – Bilbo would hardly have noticed the small rune, if it hadn’t been one of the many locks that he’d helped Oin and Nori remove from the map.

Luckily, he remembered the counter-rune. Pausing briefly to listen – Fili’s voice had risen defensively, though Bilbo could not make out the words – Bilbo quickly drew his wand and traced the rune counter-clockwise twice, pausing in the center to tap seven times on each pass.

Soundlessly, the lid opened, and Bilbo looked in eagerly to see –

– essays.  Graded pieces of parchment, from Professors Ori and Balin’s classes by the looks of it. Bilbo frowned, sifting through the pile. Why such secrecy over a bunch of old essays?

He looked harder. It was a bit strange, wasn’t it, how old some of these essays were; Bilbo saw the date on one student’s paper – “Unlocking the Chamber of Secrets: A Detailed Study of the Lair of Salazar Slytherin” – went back at least thirty years. He looked behind it, and saw that it had been gathered with five other essays of similar subjects.

All of the essays, Bilbo saw, had been written remarkably well and received almost perfect marks. He recognized the names of some of his upperclassman a few years back, and was startled to uncover many of his own previous writings for Professors Ori and Balin’s classes. In particular, his essay “The Desolation of Smaug and Its Geographical Implications” rested atop a large pile of old parchments – Bilbo shifted them, and saw that they all had been written on the same story; some focusing on the location of the secret treasure, others speculating upon the magical powers of King Thrain I.

Beneath all these, a scattering of notes in a language Bilbo did not know lined the bottom of the chest, many of them attached to maps of various mountain ranges. Bilbo lifted one up for a closer look, and a small leaflet of parchment fluttered to the ground. 

It was a drawing - a sketch done by Professor Ori's hand, most likely - of a tiny jewel, shaped with many facets into the form of a shining globe. It had been sketched at all angles, at least seven different likenesses littering the paper, and many notes in that same unkown language were scribbled into the margins. 

The voices outside the door had begun to slow. Bilbo pocketed the drawing and scrambled to replace the essays in their order. He closed the lid, its rune glowing upon reactivation, before scurrying back to the cauldron.

And not a moment too soon. Just as Bilbo had knelt back by the cauldron, the door squeaked open pitifully, and the three dwarves re-entered the room.

“Well you’ll have to be the ones to explain to Oin what happened here,” Professor Ori was saying as he opened the door. “And Thorin, as well. Neither of them will be pleased. Ah, Mr. Baggins,” Professor Ori smiled sweetly. “Thank you again for your help. I’ve said it to Balin before, and I’ll say it again, but you truly are a very singular hobbit.” 

Ordinarily, Bilbo would have flushed with pleasure under the praise. Professor Ori was a very popular instructor; and though very kind and encouraging of his students, he rarely singled any of them out. Any occasion of praise was a happy one.

Except today. Bilbo found his head full of too many strange ideas and suspicions to be truly grateful to Professor Ori. Still, he couldn’t help a small smile. “Thank you, professor.”

“Sorry Ori,” Kili said again, the very picture of contrition. Professor Ori sighed.

“Run along with you then. Fili said you have Potions next. You can save your apologies for Oin and Thorin, once you get there.” He put his hands on his hips. “I’ll call Dori and get his help in fixing this place up.”

“Oh, _thanks_ Ori!” Kili enthused, his worry over facing Oin and Thorin momentarily replaced. He gave the tiny professor a quick hug.

“Let’s go then,” said Fili, much more resigned, as he grabbed he and Bilbo’s bags. “That jinx going to hold?”

Bilbo nodded. “The water should be harmless now, but I’d be careful, just in case.” Fili sighed gustily.

“We can ask Oin what to do with it, in any case. Come on, let’s go.” He collected Kili off of Ori, and waved. “Thanks again, Ori. Sorry.”

Professor Ori just waved, already drawing his wand to fix the curtains. “Better you face Oin than me,” he said cheerily.

The prospect seemed fairly daunting, Fili and Kili trudging down to the dungeons reluctantly. Bilbo padded along behind them in similar silence, though his mind was back in the dwarves’ room with the mahogany chest.

Why, he wondered, would Professors Ori and Balin be collecting so many essays? He wished he could have had more time to look through the chest! Some of the papers at the bottom had been very old indeed. Bilbo suspected they had been written in the language which the dwarves sometimes fell into, when they forgot Bilbo was around.

He couldn’t ask Thorin, that much was clear; not without revealing that he’d been snooping. Squaring his shoulders, Bilbo made his decision just as he, Fili, and Kili reached the dingy Potion’s room.

It had been a few months – and Bilbo really had been neglecting his Pilgrimage and Service class. That settled it. Tonight, after he'd said goodnight to the dwarves, he would seek out Professor Gandalf. 

In his pocket, the parchment of beautiful drawings crinkled softly. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m curious – as per Fili and Kili's discussion, in which houses do you think our Ereboreans would be sorted, do you think? I’ve got my opinions, but I’d like to hear your own theories as well!


	9. Snow Beneath the Moon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo has had it with Thorin Oakenshield and his company of secrets. Finally, at least some of his questions are answered.

 

As soon as Bilbo entered Potions, a deep and shaking voice boomed from the front of the room: "Hold it right there, Bilbo Baggins!" At the front of the classroom, just above the storage desks, a peppery braid could be seen bobbing along. Oin did not look up at Bilbo, but nevertheless continued to holler. "One more step, and you'll regret it!"

Bilbo rolled his eyes, took another step, and knelt to rummage through the spare boots bin next to the door. Beside him, Fili and Kili smirked before hurrying to find their seats.

"I don't give a whit about your customs,” Oin went on – seemingly speaking to Bilbo, but not looking up from where he shifted ingredients in the cupboards. “And I certainly don’t give a whit about your comfort! This is a potion’s workroom, not a garden. Your feet won’t be so pretty when a batch of hopsweed burns the fur off them!” 

Having long since memorized this, Oin’s reoccurring lecture, Bilbo mouthed along silently as he shoved his feet into a pair of hobbit-sized dragonscale boots. Oh how uncomfortable! He scowled at the pinching of his toes and the gross damp press against his soles. Horrible things, shoes! A necessary evil indeed. He gritted his teeth and shook his uncomfortable feet, looking up to scan the room for a seat.

They were all taken, Fili and Kili having commandeered the last open table by Oin. Closest to the entrance, Thorin looked back and saw Bilbo’s dilemma. Though technically seated at a single, Thorin shifted to the side on his bench pointedly. Bilbo hesitated for a moment, and the drawings in his pocket seemed suddenly very conspicuous, but Oin’s lecture was drawing to a close, and so Bilbo hurried over to join Thorin.

“Really, Mister Baggins,” his friend drawled, mock-serious, in greeting. “You ought to show more common sense.”

“Really, Mister Baggins!” Oin concluded not half a second later. “You ought to show more common sense!”

“Oh, you’re tremendously funny,” Bilbo scowled at Thorin. “Did you know?”

Solemn expression betrayed by the slight crinkling around his eyes, Thorin’s only response was to move his cauldron – a gorgeous copper thing for which Bilbo didn’t bother disguising his envy – aside to make room for Bilbo’s.

Perhaps alone, both Bilbo and Thorin would have found the table a shade too large. Together however, their shoulders brushed (well, Bilbo’s shoulder brushed Thorin’s arm. The dwarf was ridiculously taller than he!).

This was nothing new. Many of Hogwarts’ furnishings were disproportionate, and Bilbo had sat squished between Thorin and Fili or Kili more than once, without a second thought.

Today, however, Bilbo’s earlier conversation with Hamfast was fresh on his mind, and as the fur lining of Thorin’s cloak brushed over Bilbo’s shins, the hobbit felt decidedly hot-under-the-collar. Chalking up this discomfort to the misadventure with Fili and Kili – and Thorin’s inevitable displeasure at learning of the state of his rooms – Bilbo shifted to the far edge of the bench.

“Are you well?” Thorin asked, his voice thrumming deeply as always. Bilbo felt an answering flutter in his chest, and watched somewhat helplessly as Thorin (again, at the loud insistence of Oin) pulled his hair back into a knot at the nape of his neck, large hands gathering fistfuls of soft-looking, sooty hair to twist it deftly out of the way. Against all reason, Bilbo’s mouth felt suddenly dry. “Bilbo?” Thorin asked again.

 _“Getting awful cozy on those late-night study sessions…_ ”

Bilbo could feel the heat rising to his face. Thankfully, he was saved from answering by Oin, who had drawn three dusty boxes out from the cupboard and now stood at the front of the class with his customary frown of disapproval.

“Before we begin today’s exercises,” he called out too-loudly, “who can tell me the best treatment for poisons – topical or ingested?"

Happily distracted, Bilbo raised his hand into the air, but it was a Gryffindor witch who answered: “A bezoar, innit?”

“Indeed,” nodded Professor Alburn, who sat grading papers at his desk in the corner. “Five points to Gryffindor, Miss Reyes. Excellent!”

“Hardly excellent.” Oin grumped. “Any dwarfling worth their axe could tell you that. What about burns? Best cure?”

Again, Bilbo’s hand shot into the air, and Thorin chuckled lightly when a green-haired field nymph piped up instead: “Mistletoe berries!”

“Another five points to Gryffindor! Well-done Kallunein,” praised Professor Alburn. Bilbo grumbled, and leaned forward in his seat for the next question.

Unlike Professor Alburn, Oin did not look impressed at this answer. “Peh! Hardly!” He glowered at Kallunein from beneath bushy grey eyebrows. “I’d give her three points, at best. The oils of the mistletoe berry can be a poison themselves. _Distilled_ berries, on the other hand, soothes most burns.” Kallunein’s dark skin began to glow irritably, but she joined the rest of the class in scratching the information into their notes.

“Now,” Oin went on, “what about ailments brought on by curses? Best cure?”

“Dittany,” Bilbo grumbled under his breath as he strained his hand high in the air, practically jumping in the air to be called on. “Dittany, dittany…”

“Dittany,” Thorin repeated loudly, voice carrying across the classroom easily. Bilbo gasped, scandalized, and glared as Professor Alburn responded, “excellent!”

“ _Cheater_!” Bilbo accused. This had little effect; Thorin continued to look hideously pleased with himself.

“No one else waits to be called upon,” he rumbled, smug. “You waste time raising your hand.”

“It’s not proper to speak without raising your hand in class,” Bilbo insisted quietly.

With a mischievous tilt, Thorin looked at Bilbo from the corner of his eye. “Then perhaps,” he almost-smiled, their arms so close that Bilbo could feel the heat radiating through Thorin’s thick fur-lined cloak, “your studies would benefit from the occasional impropriety.”

Bilbo gasped, scandalized once more, but his sputtering was drowned out by Oin’s final question. “Burns, poison, curses,” the old dwarf recited. “What potion can cure all three?”

Thorin looked to Bilbo, eyebrows raised. Silence hung through the classroom, Oin with his arms crossed and his long crooked nose tucked down into his beard as he waited.

“You do not know this one?” Thorin whispered to Bilbo, affecting shock.

Bilbo hmph’ed mightily. Of course he did! Keeping his hands pointedly down in his lap, Bilbo frowned at Thorin and called out, “None!”

“Exactly.” Bilbo returned Thorin’s high-browed look.

“Show you to question a Ravenclaw,” he muttered, and Thorin hid his bark of laughter behind a loud cough.

Quiz evidently over, Oin turned to the blackboard and rapped his knuckles across it five times. Long jagged words appeared as if written by an invisible hand: “Poisons, burns, and curses,” Oin read aloud. “Bezoars, distilled mistletoe berries, and dittany.

“For years I’ve been working on a way to successfully combine the three into one complete potion – with little success.”

He pointed at his right ear, to which he held up a trumpet. “First batch nearly took out my hearing entirely. The second batch finished the job.” The students laughed nervously. Oin continued, “Today you’ll be helping me with my research. Each table will receive one of the three ingredients, and I want the essence of them extracted in at least four forms. Take careful notes! Something you write may be useful to me – so write down everything!”

Oin’s words niggled in Bilbo’s brain, and he thought again of the collection of papers in the mahogany chest.

“ _Something you write may be useful to me_.” Was that it? Bilbo sat back in his seat, stunned at the revelation. That was it, wasn’t it? All those essays, notes marked and written and sent to Erebor for further study, kept secret in some chest of obvious import. Were Professors Balin and Ori using the students of Hogwarts as an unwitting research team? How often since the dwarves had arrived had Bilbo written on dwarven history? Were Professors Ori and Balin… were they _using_ him?

Just like Oin was now?

The thought soured Bilbo immensely, and he scowled as Oin reached his and Thorin’s table.

“I was going to have the two of you work on mistletoe,” the old dwarf grinned, “but it’s easy to extract mistletoe essence. Baggins is clever enough to get results with a bezoar instead,” and he placed four oval stone pellets on their table before moving on.

Thorin’s shoulders had straightened awkwardly; but Bilbo paid neither dwarf any attention, seething in his seat.

He had had it up to here with these dwarves’ secrets! Bilbo’d defended them – thought of them as his friends – but when it came down to it, how were they different from Primula with whom Bilbo exchanged defense notes, or Hamfast who came to Bilbo for help with charms, or even Rosie Romas, who followed Bilbo around like a lost sheep? All of them acted friendly to each other, yes, but as a means to an end.

To make it worse, Bilbo had been content with that, before the dwarves. It hadn’t been until Thorin and Bofur had sat with him one evening some days after their arrival, that he’d experienced a different kind of friendship.

* * *

 

_Neither dwarf, not Thorin to his right nor Bofur a few seats down, had made a move to open a book when they first came into the library. Bofur, at least, had brought a small bit of wood to whittle away (sneakily of course, so as not to enrage the librarian). Thorin – workspace empty – had for all appearances come to test the comfort of the chairs._

_“No homework tonight?” Bilbo asked. At the question, Bofur simply shrugged with an enigmatic smile before settling back into his carving. Thorin, for his part, shook his head and – seeming to brace himself – asked after Bilbo’s reading._

_“It’s ‘Awfully Advanced Arithmancy.’” Bilbo held up the thick book in question. Thorin looked at the title intensely, as if it held some kind of coveted secret._

_“And this…interests you?” he ventured cautiously._

_“Very much so!”_

_Thorin cast a brief, puzzling look of desperation at Bofur, but the other dwarf simply smiled again and concentrated on his work. Thus ignored, Thorin looked resolutely at the table for several moments before turning back to Bilbo._

_“What do you find so engaging about Arithmancy? I have never had much skill in the subject, I fear.”_

_Baffled, Bilbo put the book down. “Did you need help with Arithmancy coursework?”_

_“No. I am not studying it.”_

_“Oh. Then…then is this something to do with the map again?”_

_Mood visibly souring, Thorin huffed. “If my presence is disturbing your study, then I can easily leave you to it with my apologies,” and with that he rose as if to leave._

_“No!” Bilbo grabbed the sleeve of Thorin’s blue cloak – Bofur made a strangled noise from across the table, but Bilbo paid it no mind. “That is,” he amended, “I can’t see why you’d want to hear about Arithmancy, if you’re not interested in it and you don’t need it for anything.”_

_Thorin looked at Bilbo almost accusingly. “You have said yourself that we are friends,” he said in the same pedantic tone Balin used when a student fell asleep in class. “I wish to learn your interests.”_

_“Oh.” Bilbo blinked and, absurdly pleased, launched into a hideously enthusiastic description of his studies. To Thorin’s credit, the dwarf seemed similarly enthralled, almost smiling at one point when Bilbo had to be shushed by the librarian._

* * *

 

It had been one of the better evenings of his educational career, explaining Arithmancy to an obviously-lost dwarf. Even now, several months later, Bilbo could not help feeling flattered that the dwarves would seek him out for no reason at all other than his company 

Until today, Bilbo had had no reason to doubt this. But now…

Bilbo knew he was a clever hobbit, and the dwarves were obviously here for some secret purpose. Was it possible that even gaining his friendship served as a means to an end?

A voice of reason that sounded suspiciously close to Gandalf’s snaked through his mind. All these secrets! Did Bilbo even _know_ these dwarves? Thorin, for example, _still_ hadn’t confided in Bilbo his actual identity – something which Bilbo had discovered _months_ ago!

With a growl, Bilbo snatched up a bezoar from the pile. He slammed it atop the mortar, took aim with his pestle, and… _SMACK_! Mighty frown in place, Bilbo ground the bezoar between mortar and pestle with ruthless force.

His tablemate glanced at him with concern. “Is all well?”

“What.” Bilbo did not look up.

“You seem…occupied.” Out of the corner of his eye, Bilbo saw Thorin reach for a bezoar of his own, taking vindictive pleasure when Thorin’s fingers twitched at a particularly loud _BANG_ from Bilbo’s pestle.

“Do I.”

Bilbo paused, made a note on the noxious smell rising form his bowl, and continued working. Beside him, Thorin had taken to slicing through the stone with a remarkably sturdy – and obviously expensive – knife.

Bilbo’s mood darkened even further. He was no fool. He may be a hobbit of simple origins, but even he could recognize the inlaid pearls around the knife’s hilt, and the runes down the blade – while mostly unknown to Bilbo – glowed a faint gold at every cut into the rocks. One of the markings Bilbo even knew from his studies: a crest of great prestige.

“That is a lovely knife,” he observed drily. “Where did you get it?”

Thorin paused briefly in his cutting and looked at the knife in his hand as if it had appeared there by magic. “You know,” he affected nonchalance, “I cannot recall. It’s a flimsy thing, regardless,” and promptly he slid it back into its sheath and reached for a different blade in Bilbo’s own kit.

Bilbo seethed anew. Even now, when you could say they were friends, Thorin was keeping secrets. “I suppose we aren’t as close as I thought,” he thought, and felt his stomach dip unpleasantly.

Without another word, he resumed his work, but he must have made some noise of discontent, because in the next instant a warm hand covered his own. Bilbo froze, anger draining out of him like water through a sieve, and he looked with wide eyes first at where Thorin held his hand and then up at the dwarf himself.

“If Oin has offended you,” Thorin leaned in, speaking lowly, “then I offer my apologies on his behalf.” His brow was furrowed, bright blue eyes strangely intense. In any other circumstance, Bilbo would have been touched by his friend’s obvious concern.

Unfortunately, “I’m not upset,” he said flatly, though he didn’t move his wrist from beneath Thorin’s warm hand. “What made you think so?” And what did Oin have to do with it?

“You are not usually so… _enthusiastic_ in your potion work.” Thorin looked pointedly to Bilbo’s bezoar, or what was left of it: a fine splatter of dust, obliterated under the force of Bilbo’s anger.

“Huh.” Bilbo made another note and scooped a spoonful of the stuff into a plastic bag, carefully labeling it before setting it aside. “Powder. One extract done.” He looked at Thorin’s progress. “Anything on your end, or am I to do the lesson on my own _for_ you?”

The honest bafflement on Thorin’s face went far in calming Bilbo’s ire; but it wasn’t until rough fingers brushed his wrist that Bilbo realized that Thorin hadn’t released Bilbo’s hand. Thorin seemed to come to a similar revelation, as in the next instant he had dropped Bilbo’s hand and seized the hobbit’s mortar and pestle.

“Excuse me!” Bilbo yelped, indignant. “You have your own set! What are you – ”

“If we continue to pulverize the powder, then we will be able to draw out the oils.” Thorin kept his eyes on his work. “I am stronger than you. I should do it.”

For a moment, Bilbo wished he weren’t in such a bad mood so that he could fully appreciate the picture Thorin made. It was almost comical, watching him struggle to use Bilbo’s equipment – which, being hobbit-sized, was entirely out-of-place in Thorin’s larger hands. Anyone else would have looked ridiculous; but not Thorin. It seemed that no matter what Thorin did, he carried with himself an air of impervious regality.

…which brought Bilbo back to his earlier source of irritation.

Well! Enough was enough. While being Thorin’s friend did not entitle Bilbo to all of Thorin’s secrets, _Thorin’s_ secret was forcing _Bilbo_ to feign ignorance to his friends. Was Bilbo a Baggins, or a Sackville, to act the fool?

 So, observing that the rest of his peers were well-absorbed in their work (Murbank had somehow turned her bundle of dittany into June bugs, and both Oin and Professor Alburn were shouting loudly enough to cover all conversation), Bilbo put down his quill and observed Thorin working.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you,” he began, “what the runes written on your rings mean.”

The pestle slipped from Thorin’s hands. “Nothing of great importance.” He shrugged, not meeting Bilbo’s eyes. “My name, the names of my ancestors, things like that.”

“Hmm.” Bilbo collected some of the oil residue which had begun to gather on the mortar. “Is ‘Thorin’ a family name, then? I don’t believe I’ve heard of many dwarves with the name.”

Thorin frowned mightily, bagging his own sample of sliced bezoar. “Why the sudden interest in my name? I suggest we return to work. We still require one more extract.” 

“Yes alright.” Perhaps on any other day, Bilbo would have left well enough alone. But he was tired, he was hungry (he hadn’t eaten since that morning, and it was quickly approaching dinnertime), and he was filled with a great roil of anger and disappointment. So, steeling his nerves, Bilbo looked around once more to ensure that nobody could hear. “It’s truly remarkable,” he said as Thorin made a series of complicated gestures at a final bezoar, “how slow you lot seem to think I am.”

The bezoar began smoking gently, and Thorin sat back on the bench with a sigh. “So my company _has_ offended you. Who was it? Fili? Kili?”

“It’s all of you!” Bilbo whispered, throwing his hands in the air. Thorin frowned. “Honestly! Do you not see how suspicious you are? ‘My company’ – who calls their friends that? And really, how dumb do you think I am, that I wouldn’t notice all your sneaking about and the others treating you so deferentially?”

Thorin had begun to pale. The bezoar shook on the table. “Bilbo,” Thorin started, but Bilbo was having none of it.  

“Shall I list how obvious it was?” He began counting off his fingers. “The other dwarves always do as you say. I’ve seen the group of you holding secret meetings in the library. You talk like a textbook written on royal etiquette!” A sharp crackling noise came from the table: the bezoar had caught flame. Neither occupant seemed to notice however, Thorin watching Bilbo’s fingers like an inmate would watch the executioner’s axe.

Bilbo carried on. “You all walk around like you’ve got this big secret, always snooping about and calling me out to ask about potions and histories and such – don’t think I haven’t noticed! And your rings have the crest of Durin on them, for crying out loud!” He just barely caught himself from shouting. “Dori calls you _sir_ , and Nori calls you _majesty_. I doubt any of you save for Fili and Kili are actually young enough to still be students. You always wear blue, which any idiot with a history book could tell you is a royal dwarvish color, despite Fili’s claims otherwise, and your _rings_ have the bloody _crest of_ _Durin_ on them! So I suppose my whole point is,” Bilbo finally looked up from his fingers and met Thorin’s wide eyes. “Were you planning to tell me soon, that you’re heir to Erebor, or were you saving it for graduation?”

To his credit, Thorin did not bother with denial. “Ah.”

“Yes,” the part of Bilbo that wasn’t thrilled at having shocked Thorin into speechlessness echoed sarcastically. “’Ah.’”

The bezoar exploded.

“It… it is meant to be a secret.” Thorin coughed through the resulting purple smoke. A foul smell of bile filled the air, and many students cried out in protest.

Not Oin. “Brilliant!” he cried, bustling back to their table. “Get some of that, Baggins!”

Bilbo held his breath as he opened a vial to collect the fumes. An awkward look of discomfort had crept across Thorin’s brow, though it did nothing to tamper with his regal, proud bearing. If anything, he looked even more the part of a young prince, burdened with responsibility. Bilbo ruthlessly squashed any feelings of sympathy or regret at the sight.

“We’re finished, sir,” he said to Oin.

“A lovely country to be sure,” the old deaf dwarf replied. “Your notes and samples please, if you’re done?” Bilbo handed over the materials, which Oin accepted eagerly. “Excellent Baggins. The two of you can go now, then. Unless you’d like to work on the dittany batch with Fili and Kili?” Oin looked helpful. “No one else has thought to collect smoke yet.”

Bilbo frowned, feeling rather uncharitable, and said, “If you like smoke, sir, then you should ask Fili and Kili about your rooms. As it is, I’m hungry.” With a haughty look at Thorin, who had worked up a truly impressive glower, Bilbo swept together his things and strode out the door – kicking the boots off his feet as he went.

He had made it halfway back to the Ravenclaw Common Rooms, muttering to himself and fleeing the curling tightness in his gut all the while, before a noise drew him up short: a great clumping clamoring behind him. He paused, rolled his eyes, and turned.

“You forgot your cauldron.” Thorin stood in the middle of the hallway, aforementioned cauldron held out like a peace offering, and he looked an absolute mess. Scratches littered his hands, his dark hair an array of leaves, tangles, and twigs.

Bilbo stared. “What happened to you?” His cauldron, at least, appeared unscathed.

Eyes narrowed and diverted, Thorin for a moment looked somewhat embarrassed. “I took a wrong turn, following you,” he explained.

Bilbo looked at his boots, and gave a startled bark of laughter at the sheer amount of mud caked over them. “What,” he chuckled good-naturedly, “out a _window_?”

Thorin scowled. “I also sought to offer my apologies,” he said stiltedly.

Self-righteous anger remembered, Bilbo sniffed and stepped forward. “Right, well, cauldron returned. Thank you for your time very much then.” He reached to accept it from Thorin’s hands, but the dwarf stepped to the side, moving towards a side door which Bilbo was fairly certain had not been there a moment before.

“You are angry with me. Can we not speak?”

“Are you holding my cauldron hostage?” Bilbo asked calmly, making another thwarted reach.

Thorin held it high over his head. “Of course not,” with his other hand he turned the handle of the side door, and it opened to release a lovely smell of freshly-baked bread and savory stew. “But can we not speak all the same?”

Bilbo hesitated, ready to give up cauldron and friend both, before his stomach let out a noise like a furious toad. That decided it. Sniffing imperiously again, he passed Thorin, swiping his cauldron out of his hands as he went, and followed his nose to find a very warm, comfortable room. A fire crackled merrily at the corner, casting pleasant shadows over half-drawn curtains of dark cerulean, which matched the pair of sinfully-cushioned armchairs. Between the two stood a desk with two large bowls of garlic bread, filled to the brim with a thick gravy soup, to which Bilbo made a dignified beeline.

Thorin, for his part, remained by the doorframe, looking into the room with amazement. “Extraordinary,” he mumbled, before obviously remembering his quest for Bilbo’s forgiveness. He crossed the room to sit stiffly next to Bilbo.

“You may have my bowl, as well,” he said magnanimously.

“I should think so.” Bilbo’s stoic act was somewhat ruined by the ferocity with which he applied himself to his meal. A long while passed in silence, and even were he not shoveling soup into his mouth, Bilbo would have refused to speak first. Bilbo had aired all the dirty laundry. Now it was Thorin’s turn to account for it.

He didn’t have to wait long. Thorin, ever blunt, crossed his arms and looked into the fire. “How long have you known?” Enhanced by the flickering light, the lines on Thorin’s face seemed deeper and more tired than Bilbo could ever remember seeing. He found the last of his anger draining away completely, and so replied not unkindly:

“How common a name do you think ‘Thorin’ is? Anyone who’s taken even the elementary courses of history knows about Thorin the first, and it was easy to look up the genealogies from there.” Bilbo smiled crookedly and recited the line of ancestry he’d found in the library: “Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror, son of Dain, son of Nain, son of Oin, son of Gloin, son of _Thorin_. It was all there in the book. It even came with an illustration.” There hung a strained silence. “You had a very fuzzy beard, when you were younger.” 

Thorin, in whom Bilbo had witnessed a bizarre vanity for his beard, glared darkly. The murderous expression, which ought to have been alarming, was a bit of a relief to Bilbo, who had started to feel ridiculously guilty about the whole thing.

He polished off his bowl of soup, having consumed the rich bread bowl, and reached for Thorin’s. “Share?” he offered.

Thorin refused, and picked up a goblet which Bilbo was also certain had not been there before. “How long?” he asked again.

Bilbo thought back, and gave a sheepish grin. “I looked you up only a few days after your arrival.” At Thorin’s incredulous look, he shrugged. “I’m a Ravenclaw.”

Thorin’s shoulders dipped almost imperceptibly, though his expression remained stoic. “It was meant to be a secret,” he said again. “Whom have you told?”

“What!” squawked Bilbo. “Not a soul! And I don’t appreciate your assumption that I _would_ tell!”

Thorin’s head turned like a hawk’s, and he looked his nose down at Bilbo with sharp intensity; but whatever he was about to say was interrupted by a loud clanking between them. The table between them had suddenly developed a drawer, and something within it was rattling insistently. Baffled, Thorin opened and reached within the drawer only to draw out two beautiful long wooden pipes and a bag of what Bilbo’s fine nose detected to be:

“Pipeweed!” he reached for the bag with no small amount of avarice. (Smoking, while not forbidden at Hogwarts, was usually frowned upon by witches and wizards. Bilbo, along with his fellow hobbits, often had to retreat outside to enjoy a pipe.)

“Oh,” he closed his eyes with a smile as he inhaled deeply. “Lovely. And look at this pipe! Little bees all around it! How quaint.”

Thorin stared at the pipe in his hands with apparent amazement. “Remarkable,” he said, looking up at the ceiling. “What is this room?”

“Lovely,” was what Bilbo suggested as he fixed up his pipe, “but don’t think that just because I’m relaxed and happy that you’re off the hook. Now,” he puffed his pipe gently, savoring the fragrant smoke. “To answer your question, there’s no telling who all knows. The books are right there in the library for anyone to read, though I doubt very much that they have. It’s a dusty section,” he explained at Thorin’s questioning glance. “I had an unpleasant time finding the right book, never mind putting it back. Still, it’s a liability if you don’t want people to know who you are.”

“A liability,” Thorin repeated slowly, holding Bilbo’s gaze before attending to his own pipe. “Yes. Of course. Again I offer my apologies for the censure.” His mouth curled in a deprecating smirk. “I had rather hoped that you in particular would not discover my position.”

Despite the pull of relaxation, Bilbo could feel himself working up to offense again. “And why is that?” he snapped.

Thorin leaned back into his chair. His deep blue cloak curled around his shoulders invitingly, looking very warm indeed. “I suppose,” said Thorin wryly, “it is because I appreciate our companionship. It was…novel, to have a friend unaware of my standing and lineage.”

Resisting the urge to point out that, as Bilbo had known all along, Thorin had never actually had such a friend, Bilbo frowned thoughtfully. “That does not excuse the lie,” he insisted.

Thorin did not react, though his eyes pinched down slightly at their corners.

“Were it not for my having kept the secret,” he said after a long while, “would your opinion of mine and my own have been any different?”

“You mean, would I still have been your friend, if I had known?”

“Would you have?”

“Of course I would, you idiotic dwarf!” Thorin’s eyebrows shot up with surprise. “I’m not angry that you’re a prince, for goodness’ sake!” Bilbo threw his hands up into the air. “You could be the second-coming of Merlin or a bloody _Sackville_ for all I care – it doesn’t make one whit of difference! I’m upset because you didn’t tell me. Friends shouldn’t hide such secrets from each other.”

Far from reassured, Thorin sank deeper into his armchair. “So this is what you would ask of me,” he spoke tiredly, “to gain your forgiveness: Utter candor.”

“Of course not!” The thought of confiding his deepest thoughts and secrets to Thorin both appealed and horrified – especially given Bilbo’s thoughts of late. Looking into the fire so as to avoid the sharp contrast its light played with Thorin’s bright eyes, Bilbo thought of how best to explain himself. “I’m not such a Boffins that I should demand to know every thought that enters your mind.”

He ignored Thorin’s bewildered mouthing of ‘Boffins.’

“No. Only I think that friends – and mind, I don’t claim to be an expert – but it’s my opinion that friends ought to be honest about who they are with each other. They don’t misrepresent themselves or their intentions – like not telling me that you’re a direct descendant of Durin the Deathless, for example,” he teased.

“That would earn your forgiveness?” Thorin prompted again, and Bilbo’s answering nod was bemused.

“Hobbits, you find, are not keen on holding grudges. Puts us off our appetite.”

That earned a soft chuckle from Thorin, who looked meaningfully at the platter of crumbs which had once been a meal for two.

“Yes well,” Bilbo did not bother with embarrassment. “Take that as proof that I’m not angry anymore, if you like.”

Thorin smiled, one of his tiny, earnest smiles – small, as if he were shy to be happy. Bilbo’s heart fluttered, and he almost fumbled his pipe.

Oh. He thought. Oh, _bugger_. He prayed his flush could be blamed on the fire. Oh, Merlin’s Beard, what was he thinking?

“In the spirit of this confidence,” even without his smile, Thorin’s face retained its gentleness, “perhaps you would care to tell me why, on my way out of Potions, Oin began yelling at Fili and Kili with such enthusiasm?”

Now it was Bilbo’s turn to look surprised. “What?”

“As I left,” he clarified. “It seemed as though Fili and Kili and told Oin something which angered him immensely. Your name was mentioned. Is there aught I should know?"

“Oh.” Heart racing, Bilbo thought of how best to break the news. “I’m not quite sure how to say this,” he began. Thorin’s steady gaze prompted him on. “Kili accidentally melted your rooms. He added something to a potion of Oin’s, which had a bad reaction.”

Bilbo had never seen Thorin look so pale. “I fixed it, don’t worry,” he hastened to add, “and I believe that Ori was mending everything that melted. As I understood it, the potion was a very important experiment of Oin’s, and somewhat of a secret as well.”

“ _Did you touch it_?”

Bilbo jumped. “What?”

“Did you _touch_ it,” Thorin had gotten to his feet and – as rude as you please – lifted Bilbo from his own. He appeared to glance Bilbo over once, twice, three times for damage before putting the hobbit down. Bilbo was too shocked to muster up offense, his well-used, "Just because you can pick me up does not mean that you are allowed!" stuck in his throat. Thorin's hand hovered in the air over Bilbo’s hair as if debating with himself whether or not he ought to check his skull. Quick as a wink, Thorin's gaze dropped to Bilbo's feet, relaxing minutely at the unharmed state of the curls there.

“What? No. I’m fine. It was all cleared up.” Bilbo paused. “What was it?”

Thorin hesitated and dropped his hand, looking very solemn indeed as he held Bilbo’s gaze.

“You don’t have to tell me,” he rushed to add. “You don’t owe me all your secrets, remember.” 

“Perhaps not,” Thorin spoke as if he wished for no one to overhear them, despite the fact that they were the only two in the room. “Yet I do owe you the truth, particularly as your services thus far have been invaluable – as I suspect they will be again.

“You have already discovered that I am Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror, soon to be King Under the Mountain. I have heard it speculated that I and my fellows have come to Hogwarts to steal treasure. This is neither false nor true, for my company has indeed come to Hogwarts with a secret motive.”

Bilbo held his breath.

“Understand,” Thorin went on, “that what passes between us today can never be repeated to those outside of my company. It is of the utmost importance. Do you understand?”

“Of course,” Bilbo tried to pour all the sincerity he felt into his eyes. “I promise.”

To Bilbo's shock, Thorin removed his ever-present blue cloak. Without its heavy and concealing bulk, Thorin appeared even larger - shoulders wide and strong beneath his tunic. In an effort to not be caught staring, Bilbo averted his eyes, stopping when his attention was arrested by a strange lump on Thorin’s chest.

Whatever it was, it hung round Thorin’s neck by a thick chain of metal loops, which Thorin pulled over his head with moderate effort. It must have been heavy indeed, if Thorin felt its weight, and little wonder! Removed from beneath the tunic, a large gem of radiant white light hung and pulsed like a living heart – many faceted and glittering like snow beneath the moon.

Bilbo felt his gaze drawn to the center, his chest growing warm and soft, as if his heart were looking directly into the gem, and the gem were looking back. He was overcome with the urge to lift it from Thorin’s hands, to cradle it in his own and stare into its beauty for hours.

“This,” Thorin’s voice came from above the sparkling jewel. “Is the Arkenstone of Thrain. It is his legacy, passed down through my family for centuries. It is the single greatest secret of the line of Durin. It is our greatest treasure.

“It is also,” he added. “A Horcrux.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading and leaving kudos; and I love all of your comments! Everybody's headcanons on the Sorting of the Dwarves were extremely interesting and fun to read! I have my own theories, but I'm withholding them in hopes of learning some more people's opinions. I'll share mine in a couple of chapters or so.
> 
> Got theories? Questions? Complaints? Let me know! I'd love to hear from you!


	10. Muriats and Bowtruckles

Bilbo allowed himself a moment of silence following Thorin's pronouncement.

You could hardly blame him for taking the time. In the past four hours alone, he had faced a decidedly  _un_ natural disaster courtesy of Fili and Kili, averted said disaster (with absolutely no help from either Fili or Kili), unlocked a secret dwarven chest to uncover a series of incriminating implications about his friends, confronted Thorin over his censure, and then had forgiven Thorin for said censure not an hour later. 

Surely that was enough excitement for one day, especially for a modest Baggins of Bag End, without this new development dangling like a perfect drop of firelight from Thorin's fist. 

When it  _did_ register in his mind that the lovely object - and it really was beautiful, truly, like a sharp blue sky or a blooming lily: Bilbo wanted to stop and stare into its gleaming light for hours. Surely Thorin wouldn't mind Bilbo's borrowing it? But no, it - was actually a  _Horcrux_ ; Bilbo blanched away quick as he could.

“ _What_?!” he repeated with incredulous outrage, “A  _Horcrux?”_ He resisted the urge to scamper backwards, though the desire to hide behind his chair was very great. _“_ Thorin, what are you thinking?”

“I beg your pardon?” Bewilderingly, Thorin looked legitimately confused. Bilbo just barely refrained from reaching up and smacking him upside the head.

“That is a  _dark object of murder_ that is  _housing a fragmented soul_! And you’re just…just bandying it about in a potion’s supply closet? Put it away at once!”

Thorin rolled his eyes. “Bilbo Baggins, forever afraid of losing points.”

“I am  _not_  worried about  _points_!”

 "And I don't believe this room is a potion's supply closet, either." 

Bilbo's heart rate picked up distressingly, anxiety and frustration crawling down his neck. Molten gold and silver ice twinkled just below his vision, and  _oh_ Bilbo wanted to look at it, and what hobbit ever felt a pull like this towards treasure and jewels? What was Thorin thinking? " _I'm not worried about where we are_!" he hissed. 

“You need not worry at all,” soothed Thorin. “This is the Horcrux of Thrain, first of his name; created at the Battle of Moria with the slaying of Smaug the Terrible."

"I beg your pardon?" Bilbo found it difficult to concentrate, with the Arkenstone shining so enchantingly before him. "Could you put that away?" he asked irritably.

Thorin did so. Instantly, the room seemed empty and vast without the gem's dazzling light. Bilbo's shoulders slumped with relief.

"How could you bring a  _Horcrux_  to this school, Thorin?” He found it strangely difficult to look in Thorin’s eyes – as if his own hurt from the residual image of the Arkenstone. His mind raced with this new discovery. A Horcrux! With Thorin! At Hogwarts? “Nevermind the danger,” Bilbo said, back straightening with sudden indignation, “it's flat-out insensitive, considering what Hogwarts has been through!"

"Ah," said Thorin, adapting the tone of voice that Bilbo had occasionally heard during Thorin's guest lectures. "You are laboring under the same generalization that many do, that all Horcruxes are evil. Tell me, Mr. Baggins, are all murders evil?"

Bilbo shuddered. "I should think so!" he said stoutly, shoving his hands into his robes to hide their shaking. Thorin himself had again donned his blue robe, and he gestured for Bilbo to take a seat. 

"Your pride as a Ravenclaw is one of the stronger parts of your character," he continued when Bilbo had settled uneasily into his armchair. "So I beg of you to think. Was there never a time, in all the history of the world - all its wars and monsters and tyrants - that in order for Good to conquer, Evil needed to be slayed?" 

Bilbo scowled. "You’re talking about the Desolation of Smaug." 

"Not just, but yes. Think also of the death of Tom Riddle - was that not a triumph of Good? Could the great Molly Weasley not have split her soul, in the murdering of Bellatrix Lestrange? This, the creation of the Arkenstone, it was witnessed by the dwarrows Sjoormdi and Thrym, in the battle of Smaug and Thrain. Thrain and Smaug dealt killing blows to each other, and with his last breath Thrain lamented his regrettable death, and spoke deep words of powerful magic. Before they were driven from the gates by the orcs, Sjoormdi and Thrym managed to reclaim the body of Thrain – and there, where his heart would have been, shone a single gem: the Arkenstone which you have now witnessed.

"And a joy to witness it is, wouldn’t you agree?" Eyes gleaming, Thorin surprised Bilbo with a short, conspiratory grin. "I had not ever thought to see its like in loveliness, before I came to this school. You ought to consider the honor, Master Baggins: Few dwarves even know of the existence of the Arkenstone, and even fewer have gazed upon it. In fact, only three members of our company - "

"Professors Ori and Balin," Bilbo realized aloud, thinking of the drawings in his pocket and then, of the potion, "and Oin." 

Rather than put-out, Thorin appeared almost smug. "Just so," he nodded, before frowning. "Though how did you know that Ori - "

"So what was the potion, then?" Not yet willing to admit to his snooping around in the chest (hypocritical of him, perhaps, but then he  _had_ been through quite a few ordeals in the past afternoon), Bilbo changed tack. "Oin obviously made it for some kind of purpose, despite it being a complete disaster - oh!" He gasped with a flash of intuition. "That was the point, wasn't it? Oin was trying to find a way to destroy the Horcrux!" 

"Aye. An incurable potion. He had grown quite close to success - however, you've proven its flaws. If it can be stopped by a  _hobbit_ ," (Bilbo did not quite approve of Thorin's emphasis,) "then it would be truly ineffective against a Horcrux." 

Bilbo's temples ached, and he shut his eyes against the bright of the fire. "This is a bit much to absorb," he groused, mussing his hands through his curls and pulling slightly, feeling the tug against his scalp like a tether to reality. He thought for a long moment. 

Arkenstones, Horcruxes, dwarf lords, and secrets. "Let me see if I have this right." Bilbo looked up to see Thorin watching him expectantly, though his eyes strayed to Bilbo's fingers buried in his hair. Bilbo blushed - he must look unhinged indeed! Releasing his hair and resisting the urge to straighten his curls, Bilbo counted off his fingers. 

"You have a Horcrux that contains the soul of your ancestor. You want to destroy this Horcrux for... whatever reason. You came to Hogwarts to do so for... whatever reason... so then…pah!" Bilbo's nose twitched irritably, pulling a huff of laughter from Thorin. "Just tell it straight from the beginning!" 

Firelight glinted fetchingly off Thorin's dark hair as he inclined his head in acknowledgement, a wry smile twisting his lips. "You have the tale's majority." He settled back into his armchair, quite comfortable indeed, and turned his gaze to the fire.

He looked so very comfortable, in fact, that it made Bilbo think of his own favorite armchair in Bag End, which he had not seen in years and years, and very much looked forward to returning to. Strangely, the two images superimposed upon each other, until Bilbo could only think how proper Thorin would look in  _his_ armchair, in  _his_ sitting room, staring into  _Bilbo's_ fireplace. 

This was completely ridiculous of course for many reasons, not the least of which remained the fact that Bilbo's armchair belonged solely to Bilbo, and the hobbit did not share his comforts lightly. Thorin would have to get his own chair. 

Oh, and now his thoughts had gone completely nutters! Bilbo resisted the urge to roll his eyes at himself, and focused on hearing Thorin's explanation. 

 “Tell me,” Thorin began, “what do you know of Erebor?”

Perhaps Thorin had known that this would be the best way to explain something daunting to Bilbo, because instantly Bilbo felt better. A Ravenclaw through and through, it was soothing, relaxing even, in the midst of all this confusion to focus his mind on what he _did_ know.

“Not much, I’m afraid,” he answered Thorin. “No more than anybody else, anyway. Erebor, also called the Lonely Mountain, East of Laketown, largest dwarf kingdom, complex educational system…very secretive. Things like that,” Bilbo said, before adding slyly, “and what you yourself have told me, which is that it’s very beautiful.”

Thorin regarded Bilbo warmly. “Just so. A more breathtaking mountain I have never seen. Erebor is vast. We host over 800,000 dwarves – worker, miners, politicians, students, families – and as our population grows, so too does the old concern of my ancestor.” He rested his hand upon his breast, just above where Bilbo now knew the Arkenstone lay. “While Erebor’s wealth remains vast and unmeasurable, any well drawn upon enough might one day run dry. With that fear, Thrain devoted his rule to reclaiming Khazad-Dum – and its riches – to secure our people’s future. He encountered difficulties, as you well know.”

“Smaug,” said Bilbo, noting a flash of anger in Thorin’s eyes at the dragon’s name, “and the Balrog.”

“The Balrog?” Thorin surprised Bilbo by scoffing. “No. Durin’s Bane is a myth – even in the days of Thrain, during the battle, none saw evidence of the Balrog. But the dragon Smaug…” His blue eyes darkened, a deep frown drawing down the lines in his face until he looked very much like a vengeful king upon his throne. Almost, Bilbo thought to reach out and pat Thorin’s hand, but then a sudden thought seemed to startle the anger right from Thorin’s face.

“What time is it?” he asked.

Bilbo, shocked at the abrupt change in topic, looked about. An old clock, which he was _absolutely certain_ had not been next to the fireplace a moment ago, read half-past six. “Almost suppertime,” Bilbo reported. And a good thing too! That stew may have been delicious, but Bilbo’s stomach cheerfully reminded him of its missed luncheon. He had a deficiency to make up for, and he happily began gathering his things.

Thorin made a discontented noise, obviously not as charmed at the time as Bilbo. He rose swiftly from his chair. “We will be late,” he said curtly. “Hurry. Follow me, and I’ll tell the rest of the story on the way.”

Hopping to, Bilbo slung his bag over his shoulder and scooped up his cauldron. “No need to rush,” he tried to sound soothing amidst his confusion. “We’ll make it in time for the feast.”

“We’re not going to the feast.”

“What?!” The cauldron fumbled in his hands. “But…but…why not?”

Thorin smiled. “Of all that’s happened today, why is it this news which distresses you the most?”

Drawing himself up, Bilbo looked Thorin in the eye as sternly as he could with his bag half off his shoulder and his hair in disarray. “There is no excuse for missing meals.”

A thud echoed behind them. They turned, and stared.

“Why am I not surprised?” Thorin mused at the sudden appearance of a large plate of sandwiches.

“This room is _excellent_ ,” enthused Bilbo, wrapping five sandwiches in napkins and shoving them into his cauldron. A sixth he took immediately, and bit into a corner with gusto. “Okay,” he nodded at Thorin, who was looking at him with poorly concealed wonder. “Let’s go."

“We just ate,” the dwarf protested.

 “Ye-e-s,” Bilbo agreed, taking another bite, unsure of Thorin’s point. When he did nothing but stare as Bilbo continued to eat, Bilbo prompted him: “Were we going somewhere?”

That snapped Thorin out of his reverie. “Yes. Hurry. And be silent – we don’t want to be seen.”

Finding it a bit rich, a dwarf telling a hobbit to walk quietly, Bilbo chose to take another bite of his sandwich rather than remark, and he followed Thorin, leaving behind the wonderful room full of everything needed to make a hobbit happy.

“Where are we going?” he asked when they reached the stairwell. Thorin did not answer right away, robe flaring behind him as he descended the stairs.

“The Forbidden Forest,” Thorin whispered over his shoulder. “And before you ask, yes, I am aware it is after curfew hours and no, I do not believe we will be caught.”

Then he stopped, so suddenly that Bilbo ran full into his back, the cauldron full of sandwiches jarring him in the belly. “Thorin, what – ” Bilbo looked up in confusion. Then, what Thorin had said earlier registered in his brain, and he cut off immediately.

Of all…the most… _ridiculous!_ Bilbo felt as if he'd been transfigured into a tea kettle, allowed to boil over, and then sunk to the bottom of the lake. His heart dropped into his stomach, and only his Baggins manners kept in check his exasperation with Thorin and his  _bloody dangerous -_ did we not just  _talk_ about this? - ideas. A shout bubbled up in his throat ("The FORBIDDEN FOREST??"), but Bilbo valiantly swallowed it down. Instead he breathed deeply through his nose, rolled his eyes, and hissed, " _Why_?"

He couldn’t see much of his friend, profile blocked by his long dark hair, but what little of his face he could see was slightly flushed, and when Thorin spoke, he sounded oddly hesitant.

“I would like to ask you another favor, if you don’t mind.” His words were slow, careful, as if Thorin were reading a script that he’d never seen before. “It involves collecting herbs for Oin. Would you – will you help me?”

Without thinking, Bilbo laughed. “Ha! There’s a…change…” he trailed off awkwardly. A change indeed. Bilbo had grown used to his dwarves rushing about the school, dragging him about like a troll does its club with never-a-mind. Fili, Kili, and Bofur were most guilty, but Thorin had many times towed an ignorant Bilbo along on ill-advised adventures. Hadn’t they just spoken of this? What a difference now, to be asked! Hurriedly, he cleared his throat. “Thorin, it’s the _Forbidden Forest_. If it were anywhere else inside of Hogwarts, I’d be there with you. But it’s so dangerous in there…”

The line of Thorin’s back was tight and awkward. “You are correct, of course,” Thorin spoke quickly. “Only,” Bilbo wished he could see Thorin’s face, “we had planned to go in pairs – one to look for the herb, and one to protect the other. You would be safe the entire while, and we would not stay in the woods for longer than two hours, at most. If this changes your answer, then I will be glad for it. If not, then I will return you to your dormitories.”

Bilbo waited for the appropriate reactions of horror and denial, but to his surprise he only felt a quickening of excitement, curiosity, and a vague resignation. Could it be that he was growing braver? Or perhaps his friends with the dwarves had encouraged his Tookish leanings?

Or, he thought more likely, the dwarves had exposed him to far too many dangerous and forbidden ideas already, and he'd simply been desensitized to the logical denials of his Baggins side.

“And besides, Bilbo Baggins,” he thought to himself with mounting excitement, “didn’t you always wonder what it looked like, inside the woods? You won’t get much safer, than with a dwarf escort, after all!”

This was so foolish, and yet… Bilbo felt as if his chest were filling rapidly with air. In front of him, Thorin was still and waiting; and, well, that decided it, didn’t it? Bilbo smiled – though Thorin could not see it – and wished he had a free hand to pat his friend’s shoulder reassuringly.

“Of course I’ll help,” he said instead. “Thank you for asking.”

A curt nod and Thorin was off again like a shot, leaving Bilbo behind to squawk and scurry along fast as he could. Swiftly they shied around corners, dodging the crowds of students milling towards their evening meal, and privately Bilbo found the sneaking unnecessary – why couldn’t they just pretend to head towards the Great Hall with the rest of the students? But Thorin was determined, and as he once again drew Bilbo close, ducking the two of them into the shadows once more, Bilbo found he didn’t quite mind.

“Now then,” Thorin rasped into Bilbo’s ear, guiding them around another corner, “to continue our tale, I will have to be very brief. You are correct: my company has a quest. The Arkenstone has long been considered a myth. Hopeful fancy – that the noble soul of King Thrain I could still exist, giving us another chance at Khazad-Dum.”

“Another chance?” echoed Bilbo, hushed. Two Ravenclaw girls came chatting loudly down the hall; Thorin wasted no time. Without a by-your-leave, he hoisted Bilbo around the waist and hid around a large stone column. Bilbo resisted the urge to huff. “What do you mean, another chance?”

“Shh,” Thorin’s eyes went distant as he listened, tracking the progress of the two witches. Voice low, he murmured out of the corner of his mouth, and Bilbo had to strain to hear.

“Khadaz-Dum has long been lost to us. The Desolation of Smaug destroyed the only known entrance to the mountain. You will know, from your studies, that only Thrain knew the location of the hidden door, and through there a vast amount of wealth lies unguarded. My grandfather never believed the stories to be simple myth. He sought out the Arkenstone, uncovered it, passed it through my father to me, in the hopes that we might set our ancestor free, and learn the location of the hidden door.”

The two witches passed by without giving notice, and quickly Thorin and Bilbo stumbled back down the hall. “That’s what this is all about?” Bilbo hissed. “Some secret to the mountains that only your great-great-great-bloody-great grandfather knew about? Some _treasure_?”

 If Thorin heard Bilbo’s derision, he gave no sign. “Of course,” he agreed absently. “Originally, our plan was to destroy the Horcrux away from the mountain, and learn the location of the door from the freed spirit of Thrain. However, with your help, we’ve uncovered Thrain’s map, and we can find the door ourselves. There, we will regain our treasure, and finally lay the spirit of my noble ancestor to rest.”

Ah, thought Bilbo. That sounded all well and good, if one ignored the sheer _lunacy_ of it!

“Thorin,” Bilbo said, more loudly now that they had stepped into the courtyard. Empty of students and growing dim with the setting sun, the courtyard made unnecessary all the tiptoeing about. Thorin and Bilbo parted; the grass cool and soothing beneath Bilbo’s feet as they padded down the hill towards Beorn’s hut. “Why on this good green earth would you want to carry a Horcrux around with you?”

“It is quite dormant,” Thorin reassured. “It was created over half a millennium ago – the soul within is weak.

“And I certainly cannot leave it in a chest somewhere, waiting for the next pair of curious hands to pick it up.” Thorin’s tone grew dark, and Bilbo looked to see distaste curling Thorin’s mouth beneath his beard. “The Arkenstone is precious, and it is my duty as Thrain’s descendent to see it destroyed peacefully. Ah,” Thorin’s eyes turned sharp and keen, and he quickened his pace, “they are here. Excellent.”

At the base of the hill in the fading light, Bilbo saw four stout figures waiting by the trees. Oin, he recognized immediately; and next to him, with a large ax in his hands, stood Gloin; then Dwalin, with his two axes strapped to his back, and finally Bifur.

“Where are Fili and Kili?” demanded Thorin as they approached the group. Oin scowled and muttered something incomprehensible to Bilbo beneath his breath. Judging from Bifur’s amused snort and Gloin’s outright bark of laughter, it was far from complimentary.

“Little Kili is going to be spending his evening learning the value of a careful, precise work,” Dwalin growled, “and Fili and Ori are keeping an eye on him.”

“A bit of due punishment,” explained Gloin, almost gleefully, eyes twinkling at Bilbo from beneath his expansive fiery facial hair. “The young lad used up some very valuable bits of my brother’s stock.”

“Essential ingredients!” fumed Oin. “Absolutely essential, and now burned up and staining the curtains! And it would have been worse, too, if not for you, Mister Baggins.” The grumpy old dwarf bowed low at his waist, beard brushing the tall grass.

“Erm,” Bilbo smiled, looking around. “You’re welcome. Sorry we’re late – Thorin and I had some catching up to do. What is it you need, Professor Oin?”

Dwalin’s eyebrows rose at this, and he looked at Thorin pointedly.

“We were distracted by other matters,” said Thorin somewhat defensively, stuffing his hands into his robes like a recalcitrant child. Dwalin rolled his eyes, but let the subject drop. Bilbo wondered what that was about. “But no matter. Oin,” Thorin raised his voice slightly, with a wary glance at Beorn’s hut beyond the hill, “how much time do we have?”

“Sun’s setting already,” said Oin, shifting on his feet and looking at the Forbidden Forest. “We’ve only got three, maybe four, hours before they settle. We go now, I’d reckon.”

“For what?” asked Bilbo again. “What are we gathering?”

“Muriat weed,” Dwalin answered. “Do you know it?”

“Of course,” said Bilbo. “I’m a – ”

“A Ravenclaw, yes we know,” finished Thorin, not unkindly. Bilbo sniffed disapprovingly.

“I was _going_ to say, a hobbit. We know our plants. Even our extremely rare, _very difficult to find_ plants,” he said the last pointedly.

“So you do know,” Dwalin approved. “Excellent. That puts you, Oin, and Thorin as the three that know what the little plants look like, and three of us left to guard you.”

“No need to worry, Master Burglar,” winked Gloin again, eyes gleaming. “We’ll keep you nice and safe. Ahh I’ve been needing a good venturing! All this deskwork has been knocking up my knees!” He hoisted his ax onto his shoulder. “My eyes may not be good for finding weeds, but my ax will do well enough against whatever beasties lurk around in that wood. Dwalin?”

“You take Oin,” ordered Dwalin with easy authority. Bilbo wondered not for the first time what kind of occupation Dwalin worked, that his tattoos should be so fearsome and his commands so respected. “Bifur, you cover Thorin.”

“No.” Thorin shook his head. “Better if you and Bifur go together. I’ll go with Bilbo.”

Dwalin scoffed. “What good would that do? _I_ don’t know what the damn thing looks like. Do you?” He asked the last of Bifur, who snorted and shook his head. “No. Bifur’s with you, highness. I’ll take good care of the hobbit.”

“Much obliged,” said Bilbo weakly, eyeing the eerily still trees at the edge of the forest. “Please see that you do. What?” he asked when Thorin looked discontented. “You asked me to help, and so I will.”

His heart beat quickly, though Bilbo knew it now was due to excitement, rather than fear. Well, he amended, hearing a howl cut through the air, not _completely_ fear. To think, he never thought he’d have adventures of his own! Feeling rather brave, Bilbo drew his wand. “I mean, yes, it is the _Forbidden Forest_ , but that’s not the craziest thing I’ve heard all day.”

This seemed to settle it. “Gather as much as you can,” instructed Oin as the three pairs approached the woods.

“What’s that you’ve got there, Master Burglar?” Dwalin’s voice loomed over his shoulder. Bilbo craned his head back to answer, and so was too late to defend his cauldron of sandwiches. Quick as a flash, Dwalin snatched out the final three sandwiches, scarfing one whole as Bilbo squawked.

“Brilliant,” mumbled Dwalin, throwing the others to Gloin and Bifur. “Good of you, to bring us dinner.”

And well, Bilbo couldn’t very well say anything to that, could he? Casting a remorseful look at his cauldron, he drew his wand and shrank it to a portable, pocket size.

“Stay with Dwalin.” Thorin appeared suddenly by Bilbo’s side. In the setting sun, his eyes looked the darkest blue Bilbo had seen, and Thorin raised an eyebrow at Dwalin and said something incomprehensible in their language.

Not to be outdone, Dwalin answered in kind, and whatever he said sent Thorin coughing roughly, a furious frown on his face, and without another word or look at Bilbo, he was off following Bifur into the woods.

“Well Master Burglar,” Dwalin drawled. “Shall we?”

Bilbo looked at the tangled mess of the forest, steadily growing darker and darker, and took a deep breath. “In and out again,” he tried to sound aloof. “We’ll be back at Hogwarts before the Second Feast.”

Despite its name, many students had braved the Forbidden Forest. In the years following Harry Potter’s victory at the Battle of Hogwarts, many people had gone in on dares and half-cocked adventures, to visit the famous Hagrid’s brother, Grawp, and the centaurs of the wood.

Since then, the forest had grown older, and wiser in its menace. Creatures hid more closely in the shadows, and vile things which hated sunlight festered beneath the leaf-covered ground. As he walked, the ground felt strange to Bilbo – over-moist and warm against his bare feet.  

* * *

Dusk had well and truly fallen, and the forest glowed a dim blue, just beginning to creep with mist. "We'll need to hurry," said Bilbo, walking very close to Dwalin as the endless tangle of trees and bushes swallowed them up. "Muriat doesn't last long in the moonlight - only two hours, so we'll need to - " a branch snapped, and Bilbo had his wand out quick as a flash.  _Lumos!_ He thought a bit frantically, and the leaves and mossy ground glowed with a monochrome light. "What was that?" he asked Dwalin.

"Old trees," he answered easily, "cracking, losing branches most like." He looked down his bushy beard and raised his eyebrows at Bilbo, now tucked almost completely by his side. "You all right laddie?" he drawled.

"Quite well, thank you," Bilbo's supercilious air was somewhat ruined by his trembling.

"I've said it before," Dwalin said, clapping a heavy hand on Bilbo's shoulder, "and I'll say it again. You're a quick draw with your wee little magic branch, Master Burglar. Wouldn't want to be on the receiving end of one of your clever little spells." 

This made Bilbo feel marginally better, despite the fact that he could not recall Dwalin ever saying that (and the fact that it was very hard to feel threatening when the mere weight of Dwalin's hand on his shoulder threatened to send him to the ground).

Still, the forest shivered with shifting shapes and moving shadows beyond the edge of the light from his wand, the occasional glare of yellow eyes blinking in and out of focus, and Bilbo did not feel very brave at all.

"I've never been in the Forbidden Forest before," he said, to give his mind something else to think on. "I've heard there are werewolves and vampires, and giants, and hippogriffs, and Tracey Weatherworth swore he saw an enormous bear come out of the woods once."

Dwalin did not seem impressed. "You worry about your wee plants, Master Burglar," he said as he unhooked his axes, "and I'll worry about enormous bears."

"I do wish you lot would stop calling me that," Bilbo complained, crouching down to test the springy quality of the forest floor. "That way," he pointed to where the ground was wettest. "I'm  _not_ a burglar, after all."

Not much of an adventurer either, he was starting to think! A howl rattled through the canopy, and all around a chattering sound like insect wings filled the air. Bilbo's skin crawled, and he wished he could focus on anything other than the looming shadows of trees far too tall and twisted for a simple little hobbit.

"Hogwarts may argue the point, when it discovers an ancient map missing from its library,  _Master Burglar_ ," Dwalin said, voice snide. For all his uncaring manners, however, Dwalin was alert; every inch the proper bodyguard, one eye on Bilbo and the other on the surrounding wood, both hands tight on his axes. Dwalin could easily tower over two Bilbo's put together, his tattoos and heavy knuckledusters menacing in the moonlight. The sight - instead of intimidating - comforted Bilbo, and if he drew closer to Dwalin when another howl answered the first (this one closer, it seemed to poor Bilbo), at least he did not feel  _very_  afraid.

"Tell me what you and Thorin were talking about," suggested Dwalin brusquely, pushing Bilbo along ahead of him with one big hand. Bilbo obeyed, and found that thinking of that warm and comfortable room - a snapping fire, warm bread, sweet pipeweed curling in a full belly, and a deep thrumming voice - went far in distracting him from the dripping growing darkness of the forest.

"We talked about what you all are doing here," he began haltingly, stepping carefully over the fallen leaves and upturned roots. The ground began to slant to the right, first in a gradual way, before growing very steep indeed. It must be a hill of sorts, Bilbo thought, and in concentrating on his footsteps, he lost track of the conversation.

"Is that all?" Bilbo looked back at Dwalin's incredulous tone. The dwarf looked very exasperated indeed - almost angry - even with his arms thrown out for balance. "He mentioned nothing of December, then?"

"December?" Bilbo echoed. "No, nothing at all."

Bafflingly, Dwalin threw his hands - still holding his axes - into the air. "For the sake of the stones!" he snarled, so loudly that Bilbo drew back with alarm and almost stumbled down the hill into a bush of prickers. "What the blithering hell  _did_ the idiot talk to you about, if not the Yule?"

Astonished, but feeling slightly defensive of Thorin despite not knowing the source of Dwalin's annoyance, Bilbo frowned. "He apologized for keeping me in the dark about what you all have been doing here!  _Which_ ," he forgot his wariness of the forest long enough to shake his finger at Dwalin, "I really did not appreciate, and I'll thank you not to do it ever again, if you please."

Dwalin did not even have the grace to look abashed. "Don't see what got your fur in a twist about it, but so long as you're feeling better, I suppose."

"Don't see what - my  _fur_?" Scandalized, Bilbo felt heat bloom up his neck. This was really too much! "If you're talking about my feet,  _sir_ , thenI'll thank you very much not too! They're quite private!" Dwalin smirked, and Bilbo felt his ire grow. "And as for my being upset, well, who wouldn't be angry at their friends for lying to them? Oh, bother!" he said suddenly, when a sharp pain stabbed up his toe.

A large cropping of boulders, looking as if they had rolled in from a nearby heath, blocked their path. Perhaps not so high to an edhil or a man, the rocks were large and stacked up enough to pose a challenge for a dwarf and hobbit, and went far enough down the hill that it would waste too much of time to go down, around, and back up again to find their trail.  

"Bother!" Bilbo said again, rubbing his stubbed toe on the ground. "That's right in the way of where we want to go! Well! Can't go through, under, or around - no choice but over!" But before he could find a handhold, Dwalin pulled him back.

"Wait," he said. Then, to Bilbo's surprise, Dwalin stooped to smell, and then lick, the rocks before deeming them safe for Bilbo to climb.

"Could be pugut boars," he explained, giving the hobbit a boost. Bilbo scrambled up the rocks best he could, slipping on moss and shuddering at the occasional flash of sliding red worm. "And who told you a lie, besides?" asked Dwalin, going back to their previous conversation as he refastened his axes to follow. "That's a grave accusation to make of a dwarf."

"You all did!" said Bilbo with exasperation.

This was the wrong thing to say. Dwalin's face grew dark as a thunder cloud, and he climbed up the boulder one hand after another with angry force. Thud-thud-BAM! His hands seemed to cut into the rock itself! On his final reach, a knuckleduster-clad hand slammed right next to Bilbo, who squeaked but held his ground. "None of you were forthcoming! Dragging me off to break the rules, not telling my  _why_  or what you were doing here in the first place!" 

"Aye, but then, you never  _asked_ ," pointed out Dwalin, before grabbing Bilbo round the waist and swinging him round. "Land on your feet Master Burglar!" he advised before tossing Bilbo (in truth, he only lowered the startled hobbit to the ground, but any distance may be frightening, if one does not expect it) to the other side of the boulders.

“J-just because you _can_ pick me up,” Bilbo said shakily, “does not mean that you are allowed!”

He had barely enough time to catch his breath and calm his pounding heart before Dwalin followed, heaving himself over to land with a  _thud_  to Bilbo’s right. "No dwarf worth his beard would lie to a fellow," he told Bilbo not unkindly, "so don't go swinging that ax lightly."

Chastened, Bilbo nodded meekly, though he did mutter, "Most hobbits find lies of omission to be just as bad," which made Dwalin laugh.

"And most dwarrows would be honored that their skills were being put to use on such for such a noble quest."

"So would many other people, if they were  _asked_ first!" Not wanting to seem angry at his friend, Bilbo tossed up a wry smile. "I'd be more than happy to help you research or find wild plants in the woods, since friends do help each other, but first you must ask me, please!"

Dwalin shrugged. "Why ask, if I know you'll say yes?"

"Because I am a person!" Were dwarves really so different from hobbits with this? He drew to Dwalin's side and looked up as sternly as he could. "I am not a vault at Gringotts, where you put in time and receive money for your troubles! Friends help each other. They do not use each other."

Dwalin looked at Bilbo from the corner of his eye, but nodded. 

"We've not much time left," he said, closing the topic. "How much further til we find your plant?"

Bilbo gave a start. He'd forgotten, with all the conversation, that they were still very much in the Forbidden Forest. And here he hadn't been frightened one bit! Feeling a mite bit proud of himself for his courage - both in braving the forest and in standing up to the hulking Dwalin - Bilbo scoured his brain for clues on where to find muriat weed. He led Dwalin away from the rocks, and instructed him to keep an eye out for red hanging moss.

"You're the expert," said Dwalin, "not me. But I'll do my best and assume this red hanging moss is red, and hangs, aye?"

"Er - no, actually," Bilbo admitted. "Actually, it's dark purple." Dwalin raised an eyebrow, and Bilbo was struck by how similar it was to Thorin's unimpressed look. He allowed himself a moment of luxury to wonder how Thorin and Bifur were doing, if they were having any better luck than he and Dwalin, before refocusing. Thorin didn't navigate well outside of stone - Bifur would be leading the way, and Bilbo had seen him get distracted by the shapes of trees and growing things before. 

"He learns the shape of 'em," Bofur had explained once. "It's what makes him so good at Transfiguring." 

A good artist, perhaps, but not the best navigator. It would be up to Dwalin and Bilbo - and Oin and Gloin - to find as much muriat as possible. Together Bilbo and Dwalin walked down the hill, avoiding a cropping of mushrooms which were puffing out brown smoke, and into a promising canopy of wigglebark trees.

This was very exciting for Bilbo. "Muriat blooms by wigglebark trees!" he told Dwalin, who looked more bored than interested in the growing things of the forest. "Let's split up. Keep an eye out for that moss! Muriat will be on its other side."

"Aye," sighed the warrior. "And don't you wander too far." 

A chattering noise came from above them, and Bilbo shivered involuntarily. "Not a problem."

He went to tree after tree, raising his wand high to see the branches, but though he saw no end of wiggling vines and snail shells, he could not see a hint of hanging moss.

“Any luck?” he called to Dwalin.

He did not answer.

“Dwalin?” Bilbo asked, alarmed. He turned, thinking that when he looked he would find himself alone, Dwalin taken by a vampire or an ambitious carnivorous vine. But Dwalin was fine. He stood still, frowning up at the canopy, only a few trees down from Bilbo.

He appeared lost in thought.

“Dwalin?” Bilbo asked again, and this time Dwalin looked up.

"Go easy on Thorin," he said from out of nowhere. "Your ways are different from ours. It will take him a little while to learn how to be a good friend to a hobbit."

Bilbo blinked rapidly. "Er...alright." Dwalin huffed.

"He doesn't have much practice being friendly, see. Despite the silver platter, it isn’t always easy being the heir of a kingdom. The only dwarrows Thorin had for company growing up were his family. 'Course, after I was assigned to him, he had me too - and Nori and me were good friends, so Thorin would talk with him some - but all the same," Dwalin looked at Bilbo with surprising earnestness for such a solemn dwarf, "even if you were a dwarf, he wouldn’t know the right thing to do. Give him some leeway, yeah?"

"Of-of course," said Bilbo, quite taken aback. Inexplicably uncomfortable, he changed the subject. "Let's see now..." he thought aloud to himself. "Muriat blooms by blood moss, and blood moss hangs on wigglebark trees, and as my mother used to say, 'Where there's wigglebark, there are bound to be bowtruckles, and where there's a bowtruckle, make sure to - '"

"Duck!" shouted Dwalin suddenly, big hand shoving into Bilbo's back. Down Bilbo went, splat into the leaves, just in time to save his face from being smashed in.

Frantic, Bilbo looked up, but Dwalin had placed himself between Bilbo and their attacker and was scanning the area furiously. "Keep quiet!" he growled when Bilbo began sputtering. The leaves around them rustled unnaturally, first from the right and then the left – then suddenly above.

Amid the distraction of all the noise, Dwalin stood steady as a rock, axes ready in his hands, ears perked, and – Bilbo did a double-take – were his eyes closed?!?

A sudden, rattling screech, like the groan of a tree losing its branch, let out. Dwalin didn’t hesitate. In an instant, he had swung around his arm and put his ax straight through the middle of a small wooden gremlin-like creature, which had crept with alarming speed like a spider down a wigglebark tree and up to Bilbo, gnarled fingers mere inches from where they reached to pluck out Bilbo’s eyes.

Dwalin’s ax had cut deep. The creature gasped and died, crumbling around Dwalin’s ax into many pieces of bark and dried sap as it did so.

More screeches just like the last filled the air, and all around them the tree branches began to shudder and shake and let down crawling creature after crawling creature. They clung with their hook-like fingers deep in tree bark, watching Dwalin more warily now that their fellow had died. There were many, each perhaps a portion smaller than Bilbo. In some of their hands they held sticks, others rocks, and some only flexed their long pointed fingers hungrily. They bared their purple teeth and drew closer, and in the light of his wand Bilbo finally recognized them for what they were.

“Bowtruckles!” he warned Dwalin. “Oh, we just _had_ to wake up the bowtruckles, didn’t we?” But then, he saw it – a particularly fat bowtruckle was perched on a crooked branch, and over that branch hung what looked like a swatch dirty purple yarn, and beneath _that_ , Bilbo saw the delicate yellow stamen of the muriat weed, curling in the open air.

Yellow – a bad sign. “We don’t have much longer left,” he whispered. Dwalin huffed.

“They may look vicious, Master Burglar, but I can handle a few bowtruckles.”

“What? No, that’s not what I meant.” And these were certainly more than just a few bowtruckles! Even with Dwalin so strong, Bilbo doubted their odds. “I see the muriat. It’s just above me. But it’s starting to fade – we need to pick it soon, or it’ll die.”

Dwalin spat something in his dwarvish language that made Bilbo, for all he couldn't understand it, blush. Around them, the bowtruckles shivered, growing restless as a disturbed hive. They were reluctant to leave their trees, Bilbo saw, but not obviously not unwilling. He took a tentative step towards the muriat tree, and a stone zipped by his face. A sharp pain followed: a shallow cut, and a very clear warning.

“Bowtruckles are the sheepdogs of trees,” Bilbo said. A nearby bowtruckle hissed, its bark-like skin bristling up like pine needles. “They won’t want us even _looking_ at the wigglebark.” 

"I can take them." 

An uneasy tug pulled at Bilbo's heart. "But they haven't really done anything wrong! You ought to not kill them."

Dwalin's look at Bilbo went beyond incredulous, as if the hobbit had suggested they eat worms in order to escape. He opened his mouth, but whatever he was going to say was caught off, as the splintered remains of the dead bowtruckle began to shake. One by one the shards pulled together, until once again the same bowtruckle crouched before them, teeth bared and appearing no worse for its recent death. 

"Well there you have it your way then," Dwalin growled, as if this new development were Bilbo's fault! "Evidently they  _can't_ die!"

The resurrected bowtruckle gave a screech like a grackle, answered and echoed by its surrounding fellows, and again it launched at Dwalin and Bilbo. This time four others came with it, and Dwalin turned in an easy half-moon, axes swatting down bowtruckles like flies beneath a swatter. 

They did not stay down for long, and each time a new wave struck, two or three new bowtruckles added to the mix. Wooden limbs creaked and cracked, and though Dwalin was fast, he could not stop all of them from scoring their own hits. One bowtruckle landed on Bilbo's back.

"Help!" shouted Bilbo as sharp claws caught the back of his neck. He felt the skin split and give just before Dwalin roared, cutting down Bilbo's attacker. 

"Get the damn weed!" Dwalin pushed Bilbo to the ground again before flashing his axes back up into the fray. Left without an option, Bilbo crawled on his belly towards the tree. In the air above him filled with bowtruckles, the loud screeching and hissing of the creatures - combined with the occasional stabbing of rock and branch - sped up his progress, and soon he huddled at the base of the tree, looking up desperately and wondering what to do. 

"Just blast it down!" Dwalin roared, swinging his ax like a Muggle tennis racket through another bowtruckle. It shattered and fell to the forest floor on impact, but all too soon the shrapnel shuddered together again to mount another attack. "Sooner rather than later!"

"You can't just 'blast down' muriat!" Bilbo protested. "Are you mad? It's so delicate that  _moonlight_ kills it!" 

"Well do something!" One, two, three bowtruckles fell under Dwalin's axes; and one, two, three got right back up again. With a ferocious cry, Dwalin changed his grip. It broke his rhythm, and a nearby bowtruckle leapt at the opening, claws wide and reaching for Dwalin's face. 

"Look out!" shouted Bilbo, too late. Dwalin had no time to block - but he did glance sharply at his attacker from the corner of his eyes. Just like that, the bowtruckle burst into flame, dropping to the ground with an eldritch screech. Another followed it, then another, and another. 

The bowtruckles attacked with increased ferocity, but any which did not shatter on Dwalin’s axes soon caught in bursts of fire. It was like looking at faery lights in the meadow. Those that went up in flame burned bright as a bonfire, and they did not get back up again.

Bilbo looked, but he couldn't see at first where it was coming from. Dwalin had no wand - even if he did, his hands were occupied swinging both his axes his long, heavy strokes. Then he saw that between each swing, Dwalin would shift his fingers  _just so_ on the hilt of his axes, making some sort of symbol, and the runes on his knuckles would shimmer and another bowtruckle would go up in flame. 

"Amazing," Bilbo thought. "Dwarven magic!" 

Aloud, Dwalin growled, "Any time now, Master Burglar!" and Bilbo was determined: regardless of the impressive power of dwarven magic, Bilbo would not give hobbit magic a bad show. It was a particular skill, to be unseen when one wished.

He crouched by the roots of the tree, thinking to himself how very small he was, how very still, how very quiet. What could a little hobbit like him do against a bowtruckle, or a bee for that matter? Small Bilbo Baggins, he thought, feeling himself shrink away from notice. Harmless Bilbo Baggins. Not even really there.

It worked. Even Dwalin seemed to have forgotten he was there, snarling into the pointed faces of his attackers without another glance towards Bilbo.

"Excellent," Bilbo nodded to himself. "Now what?" For the muriat bloom was very high above him indeed, and even if he were a good climber of trees, he had no handholds or branches low enough to use as leverage. So, he did what Ravenclaws do best, and he thought. 

If only he had learned how to cast a Patronus! But, as his teachers had eventually decided, Bilbo's good memories were more comfortable than happy. He swallowed down the feeling of inadequacy, and focused on the task at hand. 

"Who needs a Patronus, when you've got a hobbit?" he told himself stubbornly. "And a Baggins, at that! Let's see. Think Bilbo!" The moon had begun to shine in full, and though Dwalin showed no sign of tiring, Bilbo did not want to risk any other creatures being drawn by the noise of their fight. "Think!" 

But no matter how hard he stamped his feet and pulled at his curls, Bilbo could think of no single charm that would remove the muriat from the tree branch gently enough. "Oh  _botheration_!" he finally cried, startling two bowtruckles. They changed their course towards him, and Bilbo felt something in his brain snap. " _Diffindo_!" he cried with a wide slash of his wand. Up the spell went, true to its mark, cutting through the crooked branch easier than a knife through butter. Then, before the branch could do so much as teeter in the air, Bilbo shouted, " _Accio_ branch!" and finally, "I got it! Run!" 

Dwalin wasted no time. Picking up both hobbit (with a bitten sarcastic, "If I may, Lord Bilbo?") and branch in one arm while swinging his remaining ax with another, he turned and ran from the cropping. "Thorin mentioned you're a fair hand at shield charms!" he bellowed pointedly, and Bilbo complied. 

He needn't have bothered, for bowtruckles will defend their trees to the death from a perceived threat - but they certainly would never  _leave_ them. Still Dwalin ran with Bilbo, even after the loud chatters and shrieks had faded behind them.  

"Put me down!" Bilbo said. "Hurry! I need to get the weed!" 

"Next time Oin asks me to help him with his stock," Dwalin growled venomously, "I am going to - " and he then said some very obviously unkind words indeed. Bilbo ignored him, scrambling to the ground as best he could without disturbing the muriat. Despite all odds, the hanging red moss remained wholly intact. Bilbo held his breath and carefully lifted the moss to reveal a large cropping of translucent yellow stamen, creeping up like question marks out of the wood. 

"It's okay," sighed Bilbo, numb with relief. "Here - my cauldron - let me," and, as carefully as he knew how, he plucked each and every weed. Even as he worked, the shining moonlight began to brown the remaining stock; still, when all was said and done, Bilbo and Dwalin had half a cauldron full of viable muriat, and they'd only lost a fraction of the batch to the moonlight. 

"We did it." Bilbo and Dwalin grinned at each other, covered in scrapes and dirt and awash in their victory. "We really did it!"

Then Dwalin disappeared from his side, lifted clean up into the air with a mighty roar of anger, and a great paw of a hand soon hoisted Bilbo up easy-as-can-be to follow. "Indeed," came a deep, furious voice from behind them, "You very well did." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year everybody! Those of you who take the time to kudos and comment: You really are the ones who keep this story going. Thank you so much for inspiring me to keep writing!
> 
> Also, you guys seem to really love it when poor Thorin gets lost. The poor dwarf! I'm going to have to have him redeem himself somehow, aren't I?


	11. Liars, and Wizards, and Bears - Oh my!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for language with this chapter. A frustrated dwarf is a very vocal dwarf.

The man was large and wild - black hair shaggy and growing ambitiously out of every possible place that hair could grow (and more so besides) - and he stood so very tall that Bilbo, held up by his collar, dangled a good six feet above the ground. 

Next to him, similarly suspended, Dwalin snarled and thrashed like a cat in a trap. He spat strange-but-threatening words that, judging from how the runes on his knuckles were glowing a furious blue, must have been the same spells that had set the bowtruckles ablaze.

They wouldn't work - no spells would, not on this man - Bilbo knew, and he would have told Dwalin so if he weren't so busy wishing the power of his mortification could overcome the laws of magic, and allow him to Disapparate on the spot.

"Dwarves," growled the man. He glared at Dwalin who, having realized his spells were having no effect, himself grew quite still and watched with deadly assessment. "Dwarves," the man spat again, "in my forest." His glare shifted to include Bilbo, and it promptly dropped from his face in a rare show of surprise. "Bilbo Baggins," he said, as if this were something remarkable indeed.

Which, of course, it was. "Hello, Mister Beorn, sir," Bilbo said miserably to the Care of Magical Creatures instructor. Then, preemptively: "Sorry, sir."

Instantly, Beorn's grip on Bilbo's collar gentled. "Hobbits should not wander my forest," he said with concern, and Bilbo fought a familiar fissure of annoyance at the tone. "Are you lost, little one?"

Dwalin snorted. Bilbo did his best to ignore him. "No sir."

"Then you have been coerced," Beorn concluded. His grip on Dwalin tightened, and Beorn lifted Dwalin so that the two were eye-level. "I do not like dwarves on a good day. They give little thought to the needs and happiness of others, and they damage the earth with their greed. You have burned the bowtruckles in my forest, and led a hobbit into danger." His words had an awful sort of finality about them, like a barrister's pronouncing judgement.  

"No sir," Bilbo pulled at the wrist holding him up. "I came out here on my own - he didn't make me do anything!" But Beorn obviously did not believe him, and neither did he look away from Dwalin.

"In all my years at Hogwarts, I have never caught a hobbit in my forest," he said. "You are small, gentle creatures. What business could you have here?"  

Bilbo's mind raced, before settling on the closest version to the truth he could manage. "It was my idea, sir."  Beorn's attention shifted back to Bilbo, and Dwalin immediately took advantage of the lapse in attention to check Beorn's form, for weapons and weak spots Bilbo presumed.

"I cannot believe it," Beorn insisted, hoisting Bilbo up. Up close, his eyebrows were as thick and tangled as thorn bushes, and his eyes were skeptical.

"No no no, it's true," Bilbo lied. "It's for my...my project for my Pilgrimage and Service class with Professor Gandalf. I needed to cultivate some rare herbs." Bilbo fished his shrunken cauldron of muriat weed as proof. "They only grow in the forest at night, you see, so I got special permission from Professor Gandalf to collect tonight. Professor Gandalf asked my friends to come along and help me. Dwalin was only protecting me."

Beorn remained unconvinced. "He set fire to my bowtruckles."

Dwalin could have at least looked less smug, Bilbo thought despairingly. "And he's very sorry for it, and will make it up to you somehow, I'm sure." Dwalin's smirk changed to a look of such disgust, that Bilbo was reminded of the first - and last - time the dwarf had tried a stalk of celery. "Perhaps by helping you in your garden?"

Dwalin's look of murderous outrage seemed to please Beorn, though he remained skeptical. "If what you say is true, then I will need to speak with Gandalf myself. It is not his place to dictate who enters my forest." Ignoring Bilbo's protests ("Oh, er, no. That's really not necessary at all. Erm, why don't I tell him for you?"), Beorn hefted Bilbo and Dwalin up to his shoulders as if they weighed nothing more than a bag of beans. "Hold on to me," he warned, "and do not fall."

Bilbo quickly grabbed two fistfuls of Beorn's coarse hair, motioning for Dwalin to do the same. He only glowered and reached over instead to grab the nape of Bilbo's neck with enough force to twinge. "If I have to spend any time in the dirt," he growled, " _at all_  after this, I - "

But what horrors Dwalin was sure to inflict on Bilbo's person, Bilbo never learned, for at that moment Beorn  _heaved_ beneath them, his skin rippling like the dark surface of the Great Lake. Bilbo tightened his hold, and even Dwalin started in surprise when the huge height of Beorn doubled, sending the dwarf and hobbit higher above the ground with alarming speed.

A great rumbling growl like thunder shuddered through Beorn, and Bilbo watched in awe as black fur sprouted like long grass from the man's skin.

" _Skinchanger_ ," spat Dwalin, looking very fierce indeed until Beorn's form shifted beneath them once more, almost upsetting the dwarf from his seat. Bilbo could feel the bones beneath him snapping and grinding into place, and would have felt disgusted if he weren't so amazed at watching the tall man transform into an even taller bear.

"Oh my," he whispered, feeling a bit faint. He tightened his hold in Beorn's fur. It would not do to fall from such a height. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Dwalin do the same. The great bear shook his head, snorting, and without warning pitched forward on all fours. Bilbo shouted and almost fell. Only Dwalin's grip on his neck kept him from tumbling forward, and Dwalin shifted the both of them onto Beorn's back just before the bear broke into a loping run. Together, Bilbo and Dwalin clung like burrs to Beorn's back as he sped through the forest; and Bilbo's mind raced almost as quickly.

A bear! A bear! Mister Beorn had turned into a bear! Bilbo had always known the man was fierce, and that magic spells wouldn't work on him, but he'd never thought Beorn was a skinchanger!

Trees and fairy lights passed by in a nauseating blur, and Bilbo buried his face in Beorn's fur to keep from being sick all over him. If Mister Beorn's temper was combustible as a man, just imagine how quickly he'd fly into a rage when he'd lost most of his mannish reason! Bilbo did not want to think about what would happen if he lost his dinner down the back of such an enormous and angry beast.

Next to him, over the rush of wind, he could hear Dwalin swearing angrily.  "What the bloody buggering kind of fucking  _school_  is this. Bloody changing stairs and bloody  _stinking_  dungeons and  _fucking demon trees_ and your teachers  _turn into bears_  there are  _children_ in this school this is madness I'm going to  _murder_ Thorin - " and so on in a similar vein. Apparently, on top of all the troubles heaped on Dwalin this evening, this had finally - to use a hobbit saying - taken the cake. Bilbo had never heard Dwalin lose his composure in such a way.

After what seemed like an age, Beorn slowed to a lumbering pace and twisted his neck to look over his hulking shoulder. Bilbo quailed when Beorn snarled, sinking his sharp teeth, each longer than Bilbo's entire hand, into the back of Bilbo's robes. Dwalin shouted a warning, but Mister Beorn merely huffed - an unpleasant, wheaty smelling breath - and snapped his jaws to snag the edge of Dwalin's cloak as well. Then, like it was nothing, he hefted Bilbo and Dwalin up and around until they hung from the bear's mouth like a pair of kittens.

Dwalin began swearing and snarling again, but even he saw the sense in not reaching up towards those giant teeth to try and free them.

"Oh, my poor robes," Bilbo thought. "If this doesn't pop the seams, I don't know what will!" He had to admit, however, that this was largely more comfortable than clinging to Mister Beorn's back; and from the front, Bilbo could see that they had finally left the Forbidden Forest. In fact, they were almost at the edge of Beorn's own gardens. At long, blessed last, Beorn stopped walking and began to lower Bilbo and Dwalin to the ground, which the hobbit watched approach with almost dizzying relief.

"BILBO!" came a shout from the left. It was Thorin and the others, coming from around the trees where they must have been waiting. "Dwalin!" Gloin had his axe drawn back as if to throw it at Mister Beorn, Bifur raising his spear to do the same; and leading them was Thorin, with a great hooked sword in hand and a frantic anger in his eyes.

Startled, Beorn jerked up his head and let out a deafening snarl. With a sinking feeling in his belly, Bilbo realized how it must look: him and Dwalin, bruised and scratched, dangling helplessly from the jaws of an enormous, ferocious bear. "Oh dear," thought Bilbo nonsensically as Beorn reared back to his full, terrifying height. "This is going to get very messy indeed." Aloud, he cried, "wait wait!" waving his hands, "hold on!"

But his cries were drowned out by a greater voice, somehow loud enough to be heard over the dwarves' shouting and Beorn's growls. "Mister Beorn, what are you doing? Put those students down at once."

It was Gandalf! Bilbo could have wept as the old wizard strode down the path from the school. How was it that he always appeared, precisely when he needed to? "And - for goodness sake, Thorin Oakenshield! Put away those weapons! This school has seen enough battles, without your adding anything into it!"

Beorn hunched over, skin rippling, and promptly dropped Bilbo and Dwalin. Heart high in his throat, Bilbo didn't have time to think - he pulled out his wand and cast a quick cushioning charm beneath them. That enough would have broken their fall, but with a sudden swoop both Dwalin and Bilbo were scooped up as if by an invisible hand and lowered at a much slower rate to the ground. Bilbo knew a  _Wingardium Leviosa_ spell when he saw one, especially one that he had taught himself. He looked at Thorin, who indeed had drawn his wand almost as quickly as Bilbo had done and was gently lowering Dwalin and Bilbo to the ground - all while glaring murderously at Beorn. Happily, Dwalin and Bilbo both landed softly onto Bilbo's Cushioning Charm, the bubble of air as springy as a marshmallow.

This time Dwalin did not compliment Bilbo on his speedy wandwork. He slid his feet to the solid earth with a heavy thud and stood slowly, his movements putting Bilbo in mind of a slowly uncurling dragon that had just been poked one too many times.

"Are you unhurt?" Thorin had not listened to Gandalf's order to put away his weapons, and instead stood before Dwalin and Bilbo - sword in his right hand and wand in his left - like some kind of handsome, heroic, dwarven prince.

"Which," Bilbo realized a bit hysterically, "he technically is."

"Of course they are unhurt," said Gandalf dismissively, just as Beorn himself regained his mannish shape.

"I do not harm the students of Hogwarts." Beorn's voice was ragged, as if his vocal chords were still those of a bear attempting human speak. His eyes, in particular, unsettled Bilbo: they still held a glint of animal madness to them. Bilbo slipped quietly behind Thorin as best he could.

"Of course he doesn't." Gandalf had come to stand next to Beorn, and Bilbo was struck again by how large the man was. The tip of Gandalf's pointy hat barely brushed Beorn's chin! "Mister Beorn was obviously escorting Misters Bilbo and Dwalin out of the forest in as practical a manner as possible."

Dwalin looked as if he were trying to spit out his own tongue.

"Gandalf." Beorn scowled down at the wizard. "You have sent a gaggle of dwarves into my forest."

"A gaggle!" Gloin took up his axe again.

"I sent them?" Gandalf raised an eyebrow, and Bilbo broke into a round of furious coughing. Thorin pounded his back - nearly poking Bilbo in the head with his wand - and Gandalf looked to Bilbo with a kind of resigned amusement. "Ah yes. I did. Well they were concerned for their friends, as you can imagine."

"My forest is not for students to wander about in unescorted," Beorn insisted. "You should have come to me first, Gandalf. I would have taken the hobbit safely through."

"Safely through. Yes. Well," Gandalf continued to watch Bilbo, "I will make sure to do so in the future. All is well now, though! Thank you for your assistance, Mister Beorn. It was greatly appreciated, I'm sure."

Beorn was not appeased. "They set fire to my bowtruckles."

"Did you really?" Thorin murmured, impressed. Gloin and Oin looked largely approving as well. Bifur, for his part, had lowered his boar spear and was staring at Beorn in something close to wonder.

"Oh, did they really?" Gandalf, at least, sounded appropriately remorseful.

"It will take me weeks to repair the damage to their hive."

"Erm," said Bilbo, stepping out from behind Thorin. "Sorry sir. We didn't mean to."

Beorn's glare softened when he looked at Bilbo, who may or may not have widened his eyes to play up his advantage. The effect was somewhat ruined, first by Thorin, who did not seem to approve of Beorn's attention and moved Bilbo back behind him; and then by Dwalin, who snorted and crossed his arms. "They attacked us. Would have pulled out the hobbit's eyes if I hadn't got 'em first."

"Perhaps," Gandalf suggested before Beorn’s rumbling growl could grow any more ominous, "one of these  _volunteers_ would assist you in repairing the hives, to make up for the trouble?"

Dwalin bristled, and not even Beorn looked enthusiastic about this idea. The rest of the dwarves grumbled and shifted. Bilbo sighed. It would have to be him, wouldn't it? Of all the luck. He scratched his chin and waited, and when nobody made move to volunteer, he scratched at his nose and waited. Finally - seeing that nobody else had moved in that time – Bilbo sighed again and made to raise his hand.

Then, to everyone's surprise, whose hand should shoot up but Bifur's, who looked up at Beorn almost challengingly.

"Ah." Gandalf blinked. "Well, that settles it." Bifur seemed pleased. "Well then! The hour is late - we will leave you to your evening, Mister Beorn."

It took a few more minutes of bowing and scraping before Beorn consented to return to his hut. In the end, it was only Bilbo's stomach, rumbling loudly, that gave Gandalf excuse enough to return to the castle. By that time, the night had grown properly dark, though Gandalf murmured into the crystal within his staff and produced a light bright enough to illuminate the path.

"Come along," he said shortly, giving Bilbo - and Thorin, right beside him - a very stern look. "We seem to have avoided some sort of complication, through no small fibbery of my own - for what, I should very much like to know. You may tell me the whole story as we walk."

But Thorin would have no such thing. "What were you doing, skulking around the forest so late at night?" he asked, as if Gandalf were the recalcitrant student and Thorin the professor. Behind Thorin, Oin had pulled up alongside Bilbo.

“Did you find anything, lad?” he whispered. Bilbo held up his cauldron of muriat weed, and Oin grinned widely. “Oh, that will do very well indeed!”

"It is a strange time and place to patrol," concluded Thorin, still glaring at Gandalf.   

Gandalf looked back at Thorin with equal displeasure. Bilbo thought it a very good thing that the visiting dwarves had not been assigned to any of the Houses. Gandalf would have taken all of the points possible from Thorin, and perhaps assigned a few detentions on top of it. As it stood, Bilbo thought very hard about being quiet and unnoticeable. Imagine, a Baggins losing his House any points!

And imagine what the gossips would say, learning that Bilbo had been out and about in the middle of the night with the dwarves. If the rumors were bad before, he absolutely did not want to find out what they’d come up with from that!

_“Oh that Bilbo Baggins?” Lobelia would say. “Did you know he was seen taking a romantic evening stroll with not one, but five dwarves? Goodness knows where the respectability of that family has gone to!”_

"It is no strange thing to enjoy an evening pipe in the courtyard." Gandalf fished out a pipe from his robes – the end still smoking weakly – as proof. "I happen to enjoy my evening smoke,” said Gandalf irritably, “and was about to do so tonight, when what should I hear but a great shout and fuss down the hill? Of course, I hurried down to see what was the matter, and from there, I managed to save you from a very unwise altercation with a Hogwarts instructor. Which,” he added, “you seem to have forgotten."

There came a lengthy pause. "Thank you, sir," Bilbo ventured.

"And you, Bilbo Baggins," said Gandalf sharply. "I shall expect to see you in my office at once."

"Your office! Under what charges!" Thorin had stopped, his hand suddenly heavy on Bilbo's shoulder, as if he were going to pick up the hobbit and run should Gandalf show any sign of ill will. Bilbo rolled his eyes and patted Thorin's hand dismissively.

"'Charges,'" he echoed, trying to disguise his nerves beneath bluster. Truth be told, he very much did not want to join Gandalf in any kind of office; not until he had come up with a reasonable story for what they had been doing in the forest so late at night. "I'm not going to jail, Thorin - I've been meaning to talk to Professor Gandalf about my project for a while now."

Still nervous, and mind racing with what he should and should not say, Bilbo flicked at Thorin's fingers still on his shoulder. "I will talk to you all tomorrow."

"Tomorrow." Slowly, Thorin removed his hand from Bilbo's shoulder and placed it on his own chest meaningfully - just over where the Arkenstone lay hidden. Holding Bilbo's gaze, Thorin gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head.

"Oh for," exasperated, Bilbo drew his cauldron from his robes and threw it. Oin squawked indignantly, but Thorin managed to catch the cauldron before it crashed into his head. Did Thorin think him so untrustworthy that he would tell Gandalf such a secret? Bilbo fumed. "There. I hope your potion goes well." Dwalin and Gloin seemed torn between loyalty for their prince and approval – they were both, after all, liberally covered in scratched and brambles. Loyalty could only stretch so far, Bilbo supposed.

Gandalf's hand had replaced Thorin's on Bilbo's shoulder - why  _was_  everyone suddenly deciding this was acceptable behavior? - and gave an impatient pat.

"Come along then, Bilbo. We have much to discuss."

"Yes sir," said Bilbo, looking over his shoulder to see his friends watching them leave. Quickly, before Gandalf could see, Bilbo winked - and muffled a grin when, as one, they all relaxed.

That was all well and good for them, thought Bilbo as he faced forward and walked alongside Gandalf. Easy to be relaxed when  _you_ weren't the one about to be questioned by one of the greatest and oldest wizards of their time!

Still, Bilbo was not a Baggins for nothing. His dear mother had never been able to lie her way out of a wet paper bag, but Bungo Baggins had been far too respectable and well-liked by the hobbits of the neighborhood to  _not_ have been a decent liar. Bilbo had learned from the best. He'd once had to convince his great-aunt Delphinaia that he loved the truly hideous tea set she'd given him for her eightieth birthday. Compared to that, talking with Gandalf would be no trouble at all!

“In here, Bilbo.” Gandalf, face heavy with suspicion, opened the door to a dark room – strange sounds whirring within. Bilbo took a deep breath, let it out through his nose, and nodded. Just think of Aunt Delphinaia, he told himself.

“Sometimes,” Bungo Baggins had been fond of saying, “the best way out of a problem is the most _straightforward_.”

Yes, thought Bilbo. He knew _exactly_ what he was going to say.

“I hope you will not waste my time with anything but the truth, Bilbo Baggins,” said Gandalf as he settled himself into a too-small chair, casting a disapproving eye over the room.

Bilbo said, with all honesty, “Of course not, sir.”

* * *

 

"You told him  _what_?" Arbellian Fross looked up to frown towards the back of the gardens where Bilbo and Thorin currently sat completing their assignment: molding the earth into various forms and shapes. Thorin and Bilbo – dwarf and hobbit – were both so skilled at this kind of earth magic that they had finished in no time at all. Perhaps it was for this reason that Professor Bombur, after winking at Bilbo and awarding Ravenclaw five points at the beginning of class, had assigned them an area so far away from curious ears. Having finished easily, Bilbo shaping a rocky tree from the ground and Thorin an intricate and elaborate raven, the two were able to discuss what had happened to Bilbo the night before.

“Shh!” Bilbo looked pointedly at Arbellian Fross, who had resumed his futile attempts to build a bridge of mud. Thorin – even with his robe sleeves rolled up, and his arms covered to the elbows with dirt – managed to look imperiously indignant at having been shushed. Still, he obligingly lowered his voice – though his angry whisper was no less sharp than before. “You told him the _truth_? How could you do such a thing, when you had sworn your confidence?”

“How indeed!” Bilbo flicked chidingly at Thorin’s knee, refusing to grin at Thorin’s resulting indignation. “I said I told him an _abbreviated_ truth! What else was I to do? He didn’t take me to his office – he doesn’t _have_ an office! Instead, he took me to the caretaker’s office, as if I were a first-year faunt in need of scolding, and there were Secrecy Sensors everywhere!”

And Bilbo would bet his brass buttons that Gandalf had done that on purpose. He frowned, remembering the split-second panic he’d felt catching sight of all the lie detectors. “Lucky I’m a Ravenclaw, or Gandalf would know everything by now.”

Thorin shook his soiled hands and attempted to brush his dark hair away from his face without dirtying the braids. Bilbo, who had quite sensibly cast a constant cleaning spell on his own hands before the assignment, almost offered to help, before he remembered how personal dwarves were with their hair. Rather like hobbits were with their feet – and imagine, Thorin offering to help Bilbo with his feet!

Bilbo promptly did just that, and the room temperature seemed to increase several degrees all at once. Thorin's hands, he realized, were just the right size to rub and squeeze and massage a hobbit-sized foot. Dwarves kept their own feet hidden, but Bilbo had seen Kili change into boots for Potions once. Dwarf feet were small, and delicate - almost completely bare. What would Thorin think of Bilbo's curls? For hobbits, they were quite nice - a point of vanity, for Bilbo in particular. Would Thorin appreciate the thick, shiny fur? Bilbo blushed furiously. What was he thinking? How improper! What was he doing, wondering such things about his friend!

He turned his mind forcibly away from Thorin’s callouses, which were rough from swordplay and dwarvish work. They would scrape quite nicely against Bilbo’s soles. He shivered.

“You Ravenclaws,” said Thorin fondly, wholly ignorant of the shameful turn of Bilbo’s thoughts. “Educate me then, how you managed to tell the truth without betraying our secrets.”

“W-well,” Bilbo cleared his throat and eagerly jumped on the new topic, “you’ll recall that I said that I had told Gandalf an ‘abbreviated truth.’"

"Abbreviated."

"Yes well. He asked me what I was doing with you lot, and I told him the same thing I told Mister Beorn: that I had chosen to help you with a project for my Service project – which I had decided, by the way, on my way to the office, though I don’t even want to think about writing a believable essay about all of this.”

Thorin blinked. “You…wish to help us,” he began.

“Yes of course I thought we’d already covered that – ” 

“You wish to help us,” Thorin continued, eyebrows high, “ – for a _grade_?”

Bilbo looked down at the soil, suddenly sheepish. “Well,” he said, “when you say it like _that_ , I feel rather awful _._ But it’s…it’s not as if I’m _using_ you for the grade! I needed a Service project! Otherwise I’d need to go on a Pilgrimage, and I’m just not cut out for that kind of adventuring!”

He needn’t have defended himself quite so thoroughly, it seemed, for Thorin looked deeply amused. “I am only sorry that we did not think of it earlier.” He offered Bilbo a small, precious smile. “I’ll have Balin draw up a believable project, a syllabus perhaps, for you as soon as he can.”

“Er, Oin, actually, if you don’t mind.”

“Pardon?”

“Only, I told Professor Gandalf that I was helping Oin. See, after I said that I was working on my Service project with you, Gandalf asked me what I was doing, specifically, and I said that Oin was looking to create a cure-all potion."

"Which is true," said Thorin slowly. “Oin has been working on that for years.”

"I know it’s true – and so the detectors didn’t go off. And I said that already I had helped Oin experiment with ingredients, which is also true.”

“When did you – the bezoar.” Thorin sounded almost awed, and was looking at Bilbo as if he’d done something remarkably clever.

“Precisely. And then I told Gandalf that Kili had ruined a batch of Oin’s potion, and we needed muriat weed right away, which was why we were in the forest last night."

"Which is true." Now Thorin looked properly impressed, as if Bilbo hadn’t simply gone the way of an evasive faunt looking to get out of trouble. Bilbo allowed himself a moment to enjoy the attention, before admitting:

"I don't think he believed me." Indeed, Gandalf had been extremely exasperated; but no line of questioning brought him anywhere of substance, Bilbo had made sure of it.

Finally, Gandalf had let him go with thirty points taken from Ravenclaw for being out of bed so late (Bilbo had despaired. At least nobody would know that it had been _him_ who had cost his house so many points.); and a week’s worth of detention went on top of it. “Hobbit magic is quite remarkable,” he had said. “Your ability to evade attention seems to extend to your words, as well. And don’t think your friends are free of suspicion – I will be speaking to Professor Galadriel immediately.”

Thorin only shrugged, looking very devil-may-care. "He is a suspicious wizard. It matters not what he thinks, only what he  _knows_ and can prove." He clapped a heavy hand on Bilbo’s shoulder. “Thanks to you, he knows nothing important whatsoever, and can prove even less. I will have Oin, in that case, draw up a schedule for you. Though I’m afraid he will put you to actual work," he warned wryly. “Oin has never been one to be above exploitation.”

Professor Bombur was calling for the end of class. “Leave your structures, though!” he shouted as students began packing up their bags. “Twenty points to whoever did the best job!” Bilbo saw Arbellian Fross look mutinously at Bilbo and Thorin’s construction – Bilbo’s tree so realistic, its acorns were falling from their carved caps, and Thorin’s raven had taken up roost in one of the stone branches. That design, Bilbo thought, was surely the most advanced of anyone else’s – even more so than Professor Bombur’s, who was an excellent stone architect. The raven’s feathers were carved so thin and in such detail, they ruffled in the breeze. Bilbo wondered why Thorin even bothered taking this class at all. He ought to be teaching it!  

“Well, I could use the extra lessons in potions, anyway, I suppose.” Though Bilbo did not really look forward to chopping lizard bladders or whatever other task Oin would set him on. “Tea?” he suggested as he shouldered his pack. Thorin shook his head, but walked with him towards the castle.

“How you hobbits manage your lessons with all your meals, I will never understand.”

“We’d never manage otherwise!” Thorin chuckled, and Bilbo huffed. “Meals are terribly important to hobbits, you know. It’s why most of us take so long at Hogwarts!”

“Long?” Hands behind his back, head bent down as if to hear Bilbo better, Thorin looked very much like the prince nobody was supposed to know he was. Bilbo smiled at the thought that he, out of everyone else in the school, had been trusted with this knowledge. “How long does your education take?”

“Oh, just the seven years, same as wizards and witches.” A handful of nymphs ran past, giggling as they tossed flirtatious looks over their shoulders at Thorin. “Only we don’t go home for the holidays, because we take fewer classes to fit in our meals. We make them up in the summer and winter months, though.”

Thorin, who had been scowling at one nymph in particular, looked down at Bilbo again with surprise. “Am I to understand, then, that you have lived at Hogwarts for the past seven years? You have not returned home in all that time?”

“Most of us don’t care for the journeying.” Bilbo avoided the question. He thought of Bag End, empty now and under the care of his neighbors the Gamgees, and how disconnected it had felt when he’d returned for his mother’s funeral. “We go back after our seventh year, and we don’t really go anywhere else for the rest of our lives. We don’t need to. It’s a good sort of arrangement, you see."

Thorin looked as if he had something to say, and then clearly thought better of it. Instead he shrugged. “Dwarrows have a very different educational system. We remain in school until we understand all that we wish to know. There are some Balin’s age who have not yet completed their education, and younglings who mastered their subject of choice before even Ori.”

“When did you finish with your schooling?”

“I?” Thorin’s eyes glinted with a hint of mischief. “Why, Mister Baggins, I am very obviously still a student. I would not be here now otherwise, would I?”

“Oh please,” huffed Bilbo. “The only reason you get away with that is because it’s almost impossible to tell how old you lot are. You hardly take any classes at all – and you’re remarkably good at them when you do! I daresay it’s all very old hat for you.”    

“On the contrary,” Thorin said, voice low. “I have learned quite a few precious things during my stay here.”

Bilbo had nothing to say to that, and so he settled for smiling, happy at least that Thorin was enjoying himself at Hogwarts. They walked in companionable silence down the stone corridors – comfortable silence, Bilbo would have thought, except Thorin kept on clearing his throat as if to say something, and then carrying on with a faint frown 

The fifth time it happened, Bilbo stopped and looked up at him impatiently. They were almost at the Great Hall. Behind them, the afternoon sun spilled golden and orange-tinted through a stained-glass forest – the trees within enchanted to turn with the seasons.

“You do not go home for the holidays,” said Thorin nonchalantly, studying the stone work along the walls very intently. “Am I to take it, then, that you will be remaining in the castle throughout the _Mahalmerag_ season?” At Bilbo’s mystified expression, Thorin clarified: “ _Yuleblot_?” His eyebrows furrowed. “…Michaelmas?”

“Oh, the Yule!” Bilbo nodded. “Well, yes. Yes, of course. Where else would I be? Hogwarts is lovely during the Yule season – I wouldn’t miss it for the world!”

“Ah.” The wall had apparently lost Thorin’s interest, and he now looked vaguely down at the rings on his hands. “I see,” he said, sounding…disheartened?

“Why do you ask?”  

“I only wondered, is all.” Thorin said, shrugging, and the movement caused something within his hair to glint in the sun. A new bead, Bilbo saw – a type of silver clasp, done in curls around a blue-green orb. It hung at the base of a short, intricate braid around the front of Thorin’s strange, round ears.

"That is a very charming design," Bilbo remarked, resisting the urge to reach out and examine the carving more closely.

Finally, Thorin looked him in the eye again, only for his gaze to drop as if to check the bead himself; though that would not have been possible, as it hung before his ear just at the corner of his mouth, which Bilbo was shocked to see had a small, almost bashful tilt.

Oh good gracious, thought Bilbo, was Thorin  _shy_? He had always seemed so confident, if reserved to strangers; and he obviously had no visible reason to be uncertain of his appearance! Or - perhaps dwarven standards of beauty were different, and dark hair, broad shoulders, blue eyes, and heart-stopping smiles were considered plain in Erebor.

That would not do at all! “Very handsome,” Bilbo insisted, and watched in wonder as Thorin’s not-quite smile grew minutely more pleased. “Are you going to have tea?”

Still not-quite smiling, Thorin shook his head. “I will speak to Oin, and then I am scheduled to help Balin with one of his lectures. Which does remind me – clear your evening on Friday. We are meeting in the Astronomy Tower at nightfall.”

Why did everything with these dwarves happen at nightfall? And wasn’t this Friday… “On Hallow’s Eve? Why?”

“’Hallow’s Eve,’” repeated Thorin curiously. “Yes that's right. Dwarrows call it by another name: ‘Durin’s Day.’ And I thought you would want to see what we needed the muriat for in the first place.”

He nodded farewell and turned to leave Bilbo, who stood before the doors of the Great Hall with a very large and silly grin stretched across his face. "Another riddle," he thought, pleased, "and just in time for tea!" Perhaps, after all, he was more cut out for this adventuring nonsense than he had previously thought. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Got theories? Questions? Complaints? Let me know! I'd love to hear from you!


	12. The Last Light

Friday could not come soon enough. The days dragged on, with Bilbo forced to endure his first week of detention with Mister Grugsworth on the Quidditch pitch. Gandalf could not have chosen his punishment better. Hobbit magic – and Bilbo Baggins, specifically - was not suited for anything quite so unnatural as flying.

“These charms will never hold!” Mister Grugsworth complained every evening. He held up the practice brooms, which Bilbo had spent five hours on, critically. “Look at this! The brooms don’t even _want_ to go into the air!”

"Then they’ve gained a bit of sense, haven’t they?” Bilbo had finally snapped the third day of this, earning himself two extra days of detention.

Mister Grugsworth had relented, but only in as much as he took Bilbo off broomstick duty. Instead, Bilbo became responsible for cleaning out the team's changing room after practices. This was even worse. The Houses could claim all their differences they liked - Hufflepuff loyal, Ravenclaw clever, and so on - but they were, all of them, enormous slobs. Bilbo trudged to dinner late every evening, hair on-end and reeking of stale sweat. Dori in particular had been horrified when Bilbo had described the state of the rooms, as if dirty clothes and smelly lockers were the source of all evil in the world.

(Bofur, on the other hand, had only asked Bilbo why he needed to bother cleaning the rooms at all, since they were just going to get dirty again. Bilbo had never seen Dori so scandalized.)

The dwarves had not escaped punishment either, despite their ambiguous status as not-quite-students at Hogwarts. Galadriel herself had taken Thorin into her office one afternoon; and whatever they discussed in there, Bilbo had no idea, but Thorin had grudgingly instructed the company to behave themselves according to Hogwarts' rules.

"As stands within reason," he had added. Bilbo felt this quite ruined the point entirely.

On top of his detentions, Bilbo found that whatever free time was not eaten up by homework or detention or tutoring went to helping Oin in his workroom. This was rather pleasant - except that Oin liked to complain. His favorite thing to complain about, in fact, was Bilbo. "You'd be the perfect potions master," he had said once, "if you could only get over your ridiculous aversion to handling perfectly natural, harmless ingredients!"

Bilbo had been milking the venom from a large white snake at the time, and so he did not take Oin's chastisement to heart.

Luckily, in the Potions room at least, Bilbo had the company of his friends. More often than not Fili or Kili (whom Oin still watched with a jaundiced eye whenever Kili so much as sneezed) or Thorin would come along to help where they could. Bofur had offered to help once - and Oin had thrown him from the room not two minutes later. Dwalin refused to take part.

Surprisingly, Dori was very apt with Potions - though to Oin's despair, he was even more unreasonable than Bilbo. "I can whip up a potion if need be," Dori had confided to Bilbo. "Anything that doesn't involve actual magic, you see. But why should I? Have you  _smelled_ yourself after you come out of that room?" He'd shuddered delicately, and that had been the moment where Bilbo had realized: Dori was a squib.

"We don't say  _squib_ ," Gloin had told Bilbo when he asked. "We say…well, it means ‘airtight.’ Like good axe work. My wife's the same - steady as stone! Not a bad thing, like wizards think. Dori's strong, and he's got plenty of charms from Nori for emergencies."

"His rings." Bilbo had realized, remembering how often Dori's rings would glow before Ori's robes would have the wrinkles yanked out of them by invisible hands. Emergencies indeed.

Gloin had nodded. "Quality work, there. Don't get too many dwarrows that skilled in charm work." Gloin had looked at Bilbo curiously. "Are all hobbits magical, then?"

"Oh no," Bilbo had laughed. "Well, we all have hobbit-magic. But magic, like the kind Hogwarts teaches, is something only a few hobbits can learn. Most folk are jealous, because we magical hobbits get to come for the Hogwarts feasts. But then again, hobbits don’t like being away from the Shire, so it evens out." 

"Don't you?" Gloin had looked distressed - for Gloin - before Oin had chastised them both for talking instead of focusing on the potion at hand.

Though he didn't know exactly what they were making, the work was exhausting. Bilbo couldn't count of the number of times Professor Ori had found him in the library, face smooshed against the pages of a book.

(Professor Ori had been more concerned over the book, as it happened. "Oh, I hope you didn't drool on it," he'd fretted, while Bilbo rubbed at the crick in his neck and yawned.)

Thank heavens tonight was Friday, Bilbo thought. Just one more remedial lesson with some third years - then the day's studies were officially suspended for Hallow's Eve celebrations.

Unfortunately, this was very exciting for the third years. More than once, Bilbo had to call Tabitha Crawollop away from the window, where she continued to exclaim loudly about the enormous pumpkin maze that Beorn was setting up; and even Bilbo had been distracted at the large pile of wood and timber gathered for the bonfire.

Still, work was work. "Alright alright," Bilbo waved the third years back over to their study area. "You can leave as soon as I see a convincing Freezing Charm from each of you. I'm not about to send you out and about a fire festival without the means to put one out - especially you, Finn."

Finn, a fire sprite, gave a crackling grin. Bilbo did not wonder that she was having difficulty with the charm. When Bilbo had told her to "think of cold things," in order to channel the feeling of the charm, she had drawn a complete blank. By the time the other students had gone, Finn still had yet to cool down even Bilbo's cup of tea, and she had grown increasingly frustrated with the situation.

"I'll never even need to know this stupid spell," she spat, hunching in her seat. Bilbo understood her restlessness. It was getting late in the afternoon. He only had forty minutes to meet the dwarves at the Astronomy Tower.

"You'll need to know this spell because it's covered on the third year exam," Bilbo explained, leaning back in his chair as he thought, "but more importantly, you need to learn this spell because you believe that you can't do it, and you absolutely  _can_ do it. You have the movements down, and your pronunciation is perfect. We just need to think about the concept in a way that works for you."

Finn wiggled her fingers despondently. Little flames twirled up from her nails - Bilbo could feel them, short flares of heat, from across the table. 

"Obviously thinking of cold things won't do the trick," he mused aloud, "because you've never been cold in your life."

"If you tell me to think of 'not hot,' like Professor Swistop did, then I will boil your tea," Finn mumbled. "I don't know what 'hot' is either! Everything feels the same!"

A thought struck. "Try a different association, then," Bilbo suggested eagerly. "We don't just use the Freezing Charm to make things cold - we use it to make ice, or snow, or frost, or even just to make liquids solid. Think of those things, but don't think of their  _temperature._  Think of how they make you feel, emotionally. Or maybe think of their color, or their smell."

Finn pursed her lips, but nodded, and twirled her wand as she thought. 

"Is there a certain food you like to eat during the winter, maybe, that makes you think of the season?" Bilbo prompted, and just like that, he saw the idea catch hold. Finn jabbed her wand in a sharp point towards the cup in Bilbo's hand and murmured " _Glacio_!"  

Bilbo's cup of tea immediately turned into a cup of dark hot chocolate, topped with a great mound of whipped cream - all of it positively  _frigid_ to the touch and smelling strongly of spearmint. "Oh, well done!" said Bilbo happily, quickly putting down his cup and shaking the chill from his fingers. "Really, great job! Trust me - that's extremely cold! Perfect association. Brilliant! Yes yes I see you looking at the window - go on then! We can work on separating the transfiguration from the charm next week. Great work Finn, really excellent work!"

He watched as she gathered up her things, grinning hugely, and practically fleddown the hall. Fire sprites! Bilbo shook his head fondly. Couldn't keep them away from a bonfire if you tried.

He would miss this, he thought as he returned the book of Charming Charmwork and Charts to its appropriate place in the shelves. Strictly speaking, Bilbo did not  _have_ to offer remedials. His grades were more than decent, and his Service project tied up with the dwarves neatly. Not even Gandalf, when he'd looked over the proposal, had been able to object. Still, he did so because he enjoyed it.

Life in the Shire would be quiet, after graduation. Just think! This time, next year, he'd be puttering around Bag End, getting things ready for the solstice festival. He'd have cooked pies and sweets and peppered vegetables - spiced to keep out the light chill of autumn, and guarded fiercely from Thorin and Bofur (the sneaks!). And perhaps Bifur or Dwalin wouldn't mind collecting wood for the bonfire. He couldn't have Fili or Kili do it. They'd be too caught up heckling the rest of the Shire.

Oh, but - no, Bilbo realized. That wasn't right. Fili and Kili would be in Erebor, wouldn't they? Along with everyone else. Bag End would be quiet indeed.

Bilbo shoved the final book into its slot, stirring up a plume of dust and ignoring the twisting feeling in his belly. He could still work from Bag End, he knew. Research grants were difficult to win, but Bilbo knew Professor Balin very well now, and he was certain that Professor Ori, at least, would put in a good word for him. And perhaps he could even be like Old Took, who had helped young hobbits not yet in control of their fauntling magic. 

He would write to his friends. It wouldn't be a bad life. Just a little more quiet than what he was used to - and he loved the Shire, after all.

"What's got you looking so gloomy?" That was Fili, peeking around a bookcase, Kili coming behind him. In both their hands they held two ears of buttery roasted corn. "Happy Durin's Day, Bilbo!" chirped Fili. He handed Bilbo an ear of corn, the blackened husk leaving dark smears on his fingers. "Are you ready for the spell?"

"Spell, is it?" said Bilbo, summoning his bag from the table. "Is  _that_  what we're up to tonight? Thorin's been very mysterious this week."

"Then he wouldn't be happy with us if we spoiled it now," said Fili, but Kili pushed past him.

"It's to do with the map. The riddle that you helped us solve," he explained. He handed over one of his ears of corn as well, so that Bilbo now had two. His stomach rumbled, suddenly ravenous, and he took a large bite out of the richly sweet snack. 

"Kili!"

"What? You remember what Thorin and Dwalin said. No more secrets between friends." He looked at Fili pointedly. "Didn't you say we were running late? Lead on!" To Bilbo, he grinned and said, "coming, dwarf-friend?" winking at Bilbo's flush. 

As they walked, Kili hung back with Bilbo instead of striding along with Fili. "All well?" he asked lowly.

Bilbo looked up, mouth full of corn. He had never seen Kili so serious.

"I'm fine," he said, swallowing hastily. Kili raised an eyebrow and put his hand on Bilbo's shoulder, slowing them down just a bit until they followed just out of Fili's earshot.

"Did you know, Bilbo, that after Uncle becomes king in Erebor, he intends to name Fili his heir?" Bilbo had indeed known this. Thorin had told him so himself not so long ago - but Kili did not seem to be looking for an answer. "It's put a lot on Fili's plate. It brings him down sometimes. He tries not to show it, but I can always tell."

Bilbo didn't quite know what to say. His puzzlement must have shown on his face, for Kili went on, squeezing Bilbo's shoulder. "What I'm saying, Bilbo, is that I have spent a great deal of time around someone who is sometimes sad, but who doesn't let on." He looked at Bilbo pointedly. "I know what it looks like."

They were climbing the astronomy tower now, Fili's golden hair flashing ahead of them as the sun began to set. Kili patted Bilbo's shoulder twice. "If you'd ever like to talk, I've a lot of practice in listening as well."

"And yet you never manage to remember when to turn in your assignments on time." Kili and Bilbo turned, and there was Professor Ori in his smart, red-trimmed robes, coming up behind them on the stairs. He smiled. "Hello Bilbo."

For a brief instant, Kili's hand on Bilbo's shoulder tightened almost painfully. Then he let go, and his demeanor completely changed from solemn to playful. " _Ori_ ," whined Kili. "The whole point of being friends with your teachers is so you don't  _have_ to turn in your assignments on time!" He went down the few steps to meet Ori, grabbing his elbow and hauling him up the stairs to Bilbo. "Let's go then, or Uncle will be cross. 'Make sure you get here before sunset,' he said. See, I  _do_ listen!"

Professor Ori sighed and shook his head. "I don't know what happened to him," he confided to Bilbo, ignoring Kili's indignant squawk. "When we were students together he was such a  _bright_ little thing. Always raising his hand for every question, always ready to volunteer for study groups and projects."

"Always showing off, you mean," interjected Fili when they drew up with him. They stood just at the base of the ladder which led to the Astronomy loft. Cool straws of hay poked softly at Bilbo's feet, and he could hear the sounds of merry making carrying up from the grounds below. A chill came down from the opening in the loft, and just beyond Bilbo could see the flickering of a fire. Eager to be warm, Bilbo made to climb the ladder, but his hands couldn't get the grip of it. Each time he tried, they slid right off, and he suddenly thought of how much he'd rather be in the library, or perhaps the kitchens, or down on the grounds...anywhere but here in the tower. The more he tried to grab at the ladder, the more he found he wanted to leave.

"It's a spell," Bilbo realized. Aloud, he said, "It's spelled to turn us away." But his friends were not listening.

"I did not show off!" Kili had his arms crossed against his chest, looking very stern indeed. Bilbo realized for the first time how handsome his young friend truly was. He understood that brighter colors were considered more attractive, by dwarven standards. Gloin had gone on for hours about his intended back in Erebor, with her bright fiery hair - and Ori's tawny hair and pale skin were very appealing indeed. "Bombur's always had the admirers," Bofur had told Bilbo one day, plucking at his own dark hair with a rueful grin, "All that bright orange." And Fili, with his long golden braids, walked with the surety of one confident in their appearance.

Perhaps not by dwarven standards, then, but to Bilbo's hobbit eyes, Kili was not without charm. His black robes suited him quite well, and with his arms crossed and his forehead creased in a frown, he almost reminded Bilbo of Thorin. Why, if Kili only would let his hair down from its low knot, and put on a longer beard, then he and Thorin could be brothers!

"And 'little thing'." Kili said the word as if he wanted to spit. "That's rich! You're not much older than me, Ori!"

"He's older than Fili, who's old enough to have gotten the three of you here on time. And more than that - he's finished with his schooling  _and_ his apprenticeship already, and you've done neither." Nori's long red braid hung down from where he peeked his head through the entrance to the loft. His hair reached low enough that Bilbo could have reached out to pull at it - like a bell rope, he thought amusedly. He didn't dare, though. He'd seen Nori at work in Runes, and Ori had shared more than enough stories of his older brothers for Bilbo to know better than to anger one of the Brothers 'Ri.

As if reading his thoughts, Nori winked flirtatiously at Bilbo. "Or was that you who got them here, Bilbo? Punctual as always!"

"Hullo Nori!" chirped Ori.

Nori's smirk softened. "Hey runt." To the ladder, he said, "Three dwarrows and a hobbit!" Immediately, the ladder glowed a bright green. Bilbo grabbed at it, successfully this time, and the ladder adjusted its rungs so that a hobbit might comfortably climb them.

"Thank you," Bilbo told it courteously.

"Come along then," said Nori, pulling his head back up. "You're the last of the lot!"  

Nori must be considered quite pretty as well, Bilbo thought as he climbed the ladder. Not to mention Dori! For the first time, Bilbo thought self-consciously of his own short hair and beardless face. He must seem rather plain, in comparison. 

"There he is - over here, with me Bilbo!" Oin called out the moment Bilbo peeked his head through loft. Everyone had gathered – Professors Balin and Bombur; Bofur and Bifur; Dwalin next to Thorin, the two of them whispering fiercely; and Gloin and Dori splitting a large pie.

Bilbo looked around, and instantly felt a wave of vertigo. The highest level of the Astronomy tower opened up to the sky, with only a few stone parapets around the perimeter to guard against falling. Bilbo's knees shook. He could see for miles around. 

Oin knelt in the center of the circle, stirring a smoking cauldron. Pretending he was merely on an open patch of ground – rather than the tallest tower at Hogwarts – Bilbo hurried over to him. He felt much better kneeling down, though he did not have much time to collect his wits.

"Moth wings," demanded Oin without so much as a how-do-you-do. He put up four fingers, and then held out his hand, not looking up from the potion. Bilbo obligingly levitated four moth wings from the pile of ingredients, lined neatly on a leather skin beside Oin.

"Evenin' Bilbo!" called Bofur cheerily from the other side of the room.

"I'll thank you not to distract my assistant," Oin snapped before Bilbo could return the greeting. "Unless you'd rather we wait another year for this moon?" Bilbo had never seen Oin so harried. Sweat dripped down his bulbous nose, and his grey beard had frizzed so much that it almost pointed directly up.

"I'm distracting you Bilbo? I knew it. Is it my devilish good looks? The charm? It must be the dimples. They'd fluster anybody, let alone a delicate little hobbit such as yourself." Bilbo could practically hear Bofur's sly grin. Any minute now - "Ow!" - and Gloin would jab his elbow into Bofur's ribs.

"Stop distracting my brother's assistant," growled Gloin.

"He is not Oin's assistant." This did distract Bilbo - for Thorin sounded very exasperated, and when Bilbo looked up, he saw that it was  _Thorin's_ elbow, not Gloin's, jammed in Bofur's side. 

Perhaps it was Bilbo's earlier thoughts of dwarven standards of beauty, but he thought that Thorin looked particularly handsome this evening. He wore a new tunic that Bilbo had never seen before. They must be more traditional dwarven garb. The blue-green fabric seemed to glow in the setting sun -

" _Bilbo_!" snapped Oin. Bilbo startled, but thankfully his hands remained steady as he hurriedly returned to cutting fawn antlers – not poached, but from a shedding, Oin assured him.

"Like cubing a butternut squash," he told himself, chopping in strong, assured strokes before moving on to grind what looked like snails into the potion. "Like grinding coriander seeds."

He then pulverized a bag of seven stones - all perfectly round and looking very old indeed - into a fine powder, which Nori came forward to shape into the rune for "freeze." The pattern glowed blue; and under Oin's guidance, Bilbo levitated the entire set into the cauldron. A pleasant smell filled the air - like earth after a warm rain - which only grew with each ingredient added.

Oin allowed for no rest. They worked tirelessly, and the day grew darker and darker, until the sun had fully set. In the dusky light, and over the distant babble of the grounds, Bilbo noticed the other dwarves quieting.

"Oin," said Thorin, suddenly very close, voice urgent, "it's almost time. Is it ready?"

"Three more ingredients," Oin murmured, sweating heavily now. Bilbo wondered again what it was they were making, but he didn't dare to ask. All around him, a feeling of tense anticipation had thickened the air. He glanced up. The other dwarves had come to stand in a semi-circle around the cauldron. Professor Ori looked particularly excited - Balin seemed as though he might cry.

"Wings of thrush," announced Oin. Bilbo added them to the roiling potion while Oin knocked sharply on the cauldron seven times. The potion shivered and turned a deep frothing red, and both Oin and Ori made a satisfied noise. "Now the muriat. Gently now. That's the way. Yes good. Now - final ingredient." But the leather skin was empty. Bilbo frowned, and sat back on his heels. There were no more ingredients.

Oin had moved around the cauldron, stepping away to stand next to Gloin and face the rising moon. There was an empty space left pointedly beside Thorin. Bilbo took his cue, brushing dust and owl feathers (carefully, away from the potion) from his knees before hurrying to stand next to Thorin.

"The final ingredient?" he whispered.

In the dim light, Thorin looked like a stranger: older, fiercer, and full of ancient purpose - like some sort of mythical beast or hero. His pale eyes, hued a flickering red and gold by the fire, looked ahead with obvious satisfaction. " _Stand by the grey stone when the thrush knocks_ ," said Thorin in an almost unfamiliar deep voice, " _and the setting sun with the last light of Durin's Day will shine upon the door_. You are not the only creature on this earth skilled with riddles, little hobbit."  

"True, though I didn't think _you_ were one of them," teased Bilbo, breaking Thorin out of his solemnity. With a slight grin, Thorin met Bilbo's eyes.

"Not as skilled as some, perhaps, but clever enough in this case. The last light of Durin's Day will soon be upon us, and we have no hope of being at the hidden entrance. Yet - the great wizards Fred and George Weasley invented a potion that could cast darkness at the user's discretion. Why should Oin not invent one to cast light?"

"A  _specific_ light," realized Bilbo. “That would mean – ”

"The last light,” announced Oin, “of Durin's Day."  

A beam of moonlight, pale and thin as a whisper, had fallen against the tower. As one they stood, rapt, for how long Bilbo did not know. His knees ached, and his stomach rumbled, but neither he nor anyone else paid any mind. They watched as the moonbeam – uncaring of their vigil – moved steadily closer to the cauldron.

Finally, it reached, shining directly onto the potion, which grew still as stone. Below the cauldron, the fire blazed hot as ever, and a cool breeze ruffled Bilbo’s curls, but the surface of the potion remained clear and unbroken. It had turned the color of deep water; and in its reflection Bilbo saw, behind a mountain laurel with blackened roots, a door outlined in white against a mountain. He sighed, not knowing why, and all around him the dwarves did the same. The image held, then shivered, and then began to fade.

“Now!” spoke Thorin. In an instant, Oin had plunged his hand into the potion. Ripples shattered the picture – and Bilbo mourned the lovely and haunting image of that shining door. No longer clear as crystal, the potion had turned to a dark sludge. Smoke curled around the edge of Oin’s submerged sleeve, but his hand, when he drew it out, was undamaged. In it he held a phial of clear, still light – and this he stoppered hastily before his knees gave out beneath him.

“My lord,” he breathed. He looked exhausted, as if he had aged a lifetime. “My lord,” he said, offering the phial to Thorin, who took it with careful reverence. “I have finished.”

“And yet for the rest of us” said Balin, eyes bright, “we have just barely begun.”

 

* * *

 

“You are very quiet.” Thorin sat down next to Bilbo. The cauldron had been moved – its contents taken by Bifur and Gloin down to the Great Lake for disposal – and the group now sat around a roaring flame hot enough to keep the chill away. Bilbo sat close, more out of fear of the tower’s edges than of the night’s cold, a roasted hind quarter of some animal held in his hands.

Above them, stars littered the night sky. To Bilbo, it almost seemed as if the sky were pure white, with small bits of black scattered here and there like pepper. The dwarves had fallen into Hallow’s celebrations – or were they Durin’s Day celebrations? Bilbo’s grip tightened. He did not know.

“Will you sit with me?” Thorin seemed surprised by the question, but he obeyed easily enough. Since the sealing of what Fili and Kili were cheekily referring to as “Durin’s Light,” Thorin had grown more relaxed than Bilbo had ever seen him. The other dwarves, as well, were merrier than usual. Dwalin, at Nori’s urging, had retrieved his viol – and together with Bofur he had led the rest of the group in a series of rousing songs, each one progressively bawdier than the last.

“Thirty-three years,” said Balin across the fire, butting his forehead against Ori’s.

“Seventeen,” corrected Ori with a grin. “I didn’t come til later, remember?”

“What do they mean?” asked Bilbo when Thorin had settled beside him.

Thorin smiled fondly. “Their mission is over – technically, at least.”

“You asked them to come here to find the map.” 

“They volunteered.” Looking across the fire at the two professors, Thorin shook his head. “Balin has always been a trusted advisor, and wise with our histories. And Ori is a genius beyond his years. He was very keen to come and teach at Hogwarts – and I suspect he will wish to remain, though our mission here is all but complete. We have the map. We have the light. We have the location of the door. All that is left is to find a way to destroy the Horcrux, which lies within the mountain itself.”

“What?” Bilbo looked away from the firelight, blinking furiously to clear the after image. “What do you mean?”

“Dragon fire. Thrain battled Smaug in the armory – an armory full of dwarven weapons, and some goblin ones as well. One of them would have become imbued with the flames. And that is the one we will use to free my ancestor’s spirit, and reclaim the halls of Khazad-Dum.”

“How…” Bilbo searched for the right word, settling on: “Daunting.”

Thorin snorted. “Are you afraid? Dwarrows do not fear the darkness.”

“What about orcs?” His voice carried high, and some of the surrounding conversation waned. Bilbo flushed, and leaned close to whisper, “Are you afraid of _them_?” Thorin shrugged.

“No.”

“Well!” Bilbo huffed, looking down at his feet. “Well! That’s very good for you! What am I meant to do, when you all go pandering off across who knows where, down into a crack with, with orcs – or _mold_ at the very least! Don’t come back to me with sinus infections, and expect to get my sympathy, is all I’m saying.”

Across the way, Bifur and Gloin had returned, lugging not the cauldron, but a large keg, between them. The others cheered, and even Bilbo chuckled weakly.

“A pint for you, half-pint?” grinned Bofur, tipping his hat and offering Bilbo a tankard. Scoffing and huffing, Bilbo acted very put-upon, but he did laugh and take the offered drink. He sipped, then coughed, tongue tingling.

“What _is_ this?”

“Heithrûn,” said Thorin, accepting his own pint with a nod. “The drink of the dead. For Durin’s Day,” he clarified at Bilbo’s horrified expression.

“Oh I see.” Bilbo rolled his eyes and sniffed at the liquid. His eyes burned. Making a face, he pulled away and raised his eyebrows at Thorin. “It’s certainly spicy enough to wake the dead. Do you season it more, so they can taste it better?” He sipped it again cautiously, wincing as heat burned across his tongue.

"That is the general idea,” admitted Thorin. “It improves upon acquaintance.”

“Yes I’m sure. Once my taste buds all fall off, it’ll be quite pleasing indeed.”

“You’re drinking it wrong.” Thorin held his own tankard cupped between his hands, looking at Bilbo with something like fondness. “Dwalin! Oin and Gloin! Come drink to our fathers with me.”

They sat in two lines facing each other, pints on the ground before them. Dwalin was obviously already deep in his cups, a rosy color spreading from his neck to color his bald pate. He gripped his tankard, and Thorin across from him did the same.

“Remembering the names and deeds of our ancestors is a sacred and solemn duty of the living,” explained Thorin. “For every father that came before us in our line, we drink for them an offering of heithrûn.”

Bilbo gaped. “Every father?!” That could not be true. “Thorin, you have twelve ancestors!” By the end of the night, he would be babysitting a slathering gaggle of drunken dwarves! Drunken, on top of the Astronomy tower! He shuddered at the thought. Kili would be just the sort to drink too much and go carousing off the edge of the tower!

“And they had their brothers, and their sisters had husbands. We drink to them all.”

“And just so our livers don’t kill us before our time,” put in Oin, before Bilbo could protest, “we split the lot. Watch.” He had regained his color since the ceremony, and he lifted his tankard and crashed it against Gloin’s. “I am Oin, son of Groin!” he bellowed.

“I am Gloin, son of Groin, son of Farin!” returned Gloin, and as one they tipped back their heads and drained their tankards in one gulp, heithrûn running down their beards and necks.

“What then, cousin?” taunted Dwalin, slurring his words only slightly. “Dwalin, son of Fundin, son of Farin, son of Borin, son of Oin!”

“At Oin already, Dwalin?” Thorin clunked his tankard against Dwalin’s. “Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror, his brother Fror.” Mirroring Gloin and Oin, who had each collected another cup and were moving over to Balin, Dwalin and Thorin tipped back their heads to drink.

They quaffed noisily, Bilbo watching in half awe and half disgust as the honey-colored mead soaked their beards and tunics.

Disgust, he thought frantically, when he caught himself watching the gleaming tendons of Thorin’s neck a little too closely. Definitely disgust.

Dwalin belched, and the rest of the group cheered. “I’ve given Nain his cups,” he said to Thorin. “Drink to Gror, and come to me or Balin for Oin.”

“That’s it, then?” Bilbo felt a little faint. Behind him, Fili was roaring with Kili (“His brother Gror, their father Dain!” “His father Gloin!”) “You all just drink until you drop?”

Thorin chuckled, pulling out his wand and summoning another pint. His form, Bilbo noted proudly, was perfect. He’d obviously had an excellent teacher. “We drink until every ancestor has been honored. Come, take up yours. Or do hobbits forget the names of their family so quickly?”

That stung more than Thorin could know – but Bilbo ignored the pang to defend his people. “I daresay we have a better mind for them than you lot, even if we don’t have a genealogy lesson at every party!” He took up his tankard, then paused.

“What about…” He traced the rim of his cup, not wanting to meet Thorin’s eyes. “What about mothers?”

There was a beat of silence. Thorin put a hand on Bilbo’s knee. “We remember our mothers in the winter. I will drink to them with you then.”

Bilbo  covered Thorin’s hand with his own. “I’ll hold you to it,” he said sternly, looking Thorin in the eye for a beat too long. Flushing, he looked away. “In that case, then – Bilbo Baggins, son of Bungo Baggins!”

A flash of emotion - regret? - passed over Thorin's face as he realized what this meant. The hand on Bilbo's knee squeezed comfortingly. “Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thor, his brother Fror, their father Dain, his father Gloin. Nain and his father Dain - honored. To Thrain!” shouted Thorin. Balin called out in reply, “His father Nain!” and Gloin bellowed, “His father Durin!”

As one, the dwarves all cried: “To Father Durin!”  

“Gulp it down,” Thorin spoke loudly over the cheers. “Don’t let it linger on your tongue.”

Bilbo breathed deeply, threw back his head, and poured the spicy drink down his throat. It burned, but not so unpleasantly as it had before, and what little he couldn’t swallow ran coolly down his skin. He drained the tankard quickly, faster than Thorin, who was staring somewhat dumbly.

“You dwarves think you invented mead?” Bilbo quipped, wiping the heithrûn from his throat. Thorin’s eyes tracked the movement. He felt fumes from the drink rising back up his throat, spreading a surprisingly sweet warmth through him. “Not bad,” he said, smacking his lips. “Shall we have another? To my uncle, Bingo Baggins!”

Laughing aloud, eyes bright and sparkling, Thorin acquiesced. “To Durin, second of his name!” he cried, voice clear and rising over the din.

“To Father Durin!” echoed the dwarves, raising their tankards up to the moon. “To Durin!” they cried. "To Durin!"  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If I could draw, I would have an illustration of the morning after. Just imagine Gandalf discovering an absolute mess at the top of the tower, with groaning dwarves and one happily sleeping hobbit - because hobbits have giant feet and an immunity to hangovers - just all over the place in various states of dishevelment. 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this chapter!


	13. Eye for Gold

Hogwarts greeted November in its usual fashion. With finals looming ever nearer in December, some of the more studious of Bilbo's classmates had taken to the libraries. The rest of the students, however, in a bought of stubborn denial, preferred to spend the calm before the storm doing anything but studying. 

The dwarves were no exception. Fili, Kili, and Nori in particular seemed to have made it their personal mission to disturb Bilbo's study as much as possible. Daily, at their own discretion, they dragged him out of the library for increasingly weak reasons. 

"Hobbits need sunlight," Fili had said today when he'd strong-armed Bilbo towards the Quidditch pitch. "We can't have you wilting! Just go to the game with us, and we'll leave you alone for the rest of the day!" 

As much as he resented the comparison to a potted plant, Bilbo had to admit that skiving off studying had its benefits. The Quidditch game would not start for another hour (though Bilbo had no intention whatsoever of going), and in the interim Bilbo allowed himself to lay back on the grass and relax. The sun on his face felt gorgeous, and he dozed lightly, surrounded by the sounds of Bofur, Fili, and Kili playing a game of exploding snap, with Thorin and Bifur talking quietly beside him. Far across the lawn, a small crowd of students milled around the Quidditch pitch, cheering as the players zoomed by on their warm up.

The only thing which could have improved the afternoon would have been a hearty plate of sandwiches, or perhaps  even a slice of cake. Still, tea time was only two hours away, if Bilbo ignored the game - and he had full intention of doing so. Hobbits were not fond of heights as a general rule, and Bilbo did not fancy climbing up to the tall seats just to watch a pack of suicidal students beat each other with sticks fifty feet above ground.

Fili and Kili did not need to know that, however - and in the meantime, he may as well work on his charms. A dehydrated thorn bush grew just within wand's reach of him. He poked at it lazily to turn it into a gorse, and then rolled on his side and entertained himself by making the flowers bloom and fade in turn. 

"That was the first spell I saw from you." Thorin's voice broke into the lull. Conversation with Bifur evidently finished, he had come to sit next to Bilbo's head and look - fondly? - at the gorse bush. "That day in the courtyard. You were making the flowers bloom." 

Bilbo blinked up at him. "Pardon?" he asked, though of course he remembered meeting Thorin. He  _had_ been practicing his growing magic, hadn't he? How funny, that Thorin should remember it as well. "I would have thought you were too focused on finding your way, to notice a hobbit growing flowers." 

"Of course," agreed Thorin blithely. Bilbo rolled his eyes. "I only recall noticing it because it was a particularly pretty, interesting sort of magic. Dwarrows," he said, almost smiling down at Bilbo, "do not work plant magic." 

"Well there's a challenge if I've ever heard one! Get your wand out, we'll see how you do." Bilbo sat up, shaking the grass from his hair. He turned to Thorin, and caught him staring near Bilbo's ear. "What?" 

Thorin pointed. "You've a leaf in your hair."

"Oh," Bilbo flicked at his curls. Thorin made a kind of strangled chuckling noise.  

"Here," he said, and warm, rough fingers brushed near Bilbo's ear.

Bilbo bit back a squeak of surprise. Thorin's fingers lingered, Thorin obviously distracted by some thought or another - but Bilbo found it difficult to think about anything at all, particularly when Thorin's finger ran ticklishly along the edge of Bilbo's ear, tapping against the point curiously. Bilbo shuddered.

Thorin made a considering noise, and repeated the gesture. At once, Bilbo's face flooded red. " _Thorin_!" he hissed. Thorin jerked and pulled away quickly. 

"Is that - I apologize. Here," he handed Bilbo a withered brown leaf, which Bilbo took with shaking hands.

"You don't touch another person's ears, Thorin," Bilbo said sternly over the frantic beating of his heart. Thorin nodded slowly, but obviously did not understand, and so Bilbo said pointedly: "Not without their permission. Ears are  _private_." 

Comprehension dawned on Thorin's face, and his eyes flicked down to Bilbo's feet. "Yes," said Bilbo. "The same as feet. Same as dwarves are with  _hair_."

Like a fauntling caught with their hand in the jar, Thorin snatched his hands down to his lap, looking as close to mortified as Bilbo had ever seen him. "By my beard, I apologize," he said again. Bilbo saw him rubbing his fingers together, and he fought the prickling urge to scrub at his own ear, where the scrape of Thorin's calloused fingers still lingered. "I did not think, that is, I did not intend offense." 

Bilbo dropped the leaf, hating that his face was bright red. "Thank you," he said. "It's fine. Just - don't do it again, if you please." 

Thorin nodded readily, and Bilbo felt a rise of disappointment which he bashed down mercilessly. He was a respectable hobbit! He may have an admiration for Thorin, but that didn't mean he was allowed to want the dwarf to start rubbing at his ears! Just the thought...

"Anyway anyway," Bilbo blustered, still feeling rather hot and bothered. "Would you like to try your hand at growing magic?" 

"Yes, of course." Obviously relieved at the change in topic, Thorin drew out his wand. The awkward atmosphere held for a moment, but soon enough, as Thorin turned his concentration towards making the flowers bloom, all seemed forgotten.

(Well, mostly forgotten. Bilbo took the first chance when Thorin was not looking to rub his ear furiously, erasing the lingering ghost of Thorin's touch.)

"No no." He put a hand on Thorin's wrist. Perhaps Thorin, too, still felt somewhat uncomfortable, for at BIlbo's touch, all of the gorse flowers slammed shut. Bilbo ignored this. "It's a spiral motion, and you have to feel them opening - be gentle. It's not like rocky, dwarvish magic."

"Dwarven magic," Thorin side-eyed Bilbo, "is not all bashing heads and explosions, just as hobbit magic is not all flowers and food. We are more than capable of being gentle." At that moment, the exploding snap game ignited, and Bofur's eyebrows promptly caught fire. With a shout, he launched himself at Kili, and soon the three dwarves were wrestling good naturedly - with blows that cracked like clashing boulders.  

Bilbo raised his eyebrows, which Thorin gamely ignored. "Dwarrows," Thorin spoke loudly over the noise, "are masters of delicate work."

As if to prove this, Thorin reached out to touch a bud with his finger. It trembled, but true to his word Thorin was gentle. He lingered, seeming to get a feel of the size and make, before aiming his wand again. “ _Flora Augmentarum,_ ” he said, and smirked as the bud bloomed just the tiniest bit. It was progress, thought Bilbo, though a _fifth_ year could have done a better job. But Thorin looked so triumphant that Bilbo did not have the heart to tell him so.

"Oh yes," he smiled, "very impressive," not bothering to hide his laugh when Thorin preened smugly.

"Hey now Uncle! Bilbo! It's time for us to get going!" Kili called. "We'll need to find seats!"

Sighing, Bilbo reluctantly got to his feet, patting off his robes. "Seats for what?" Kili gawked.

“Seats for – the  _game_ , Bilbo!"

“Oh.” He had forgotten. With a groan, Bilbo fell back onto the blankets. "Oh go on then! I'll just stay here." He closed his eyes again, smiling when he heard Thorin laugh.

 _"Bilbo_!" said Kili, scandalized. "They're saying this will be the biggest match of the year!"

"Hmm. Who's playing, then?"

"Hufflepuff and Slytherin - and it's supposed to be really close -"

Bilbo waved his hand. "Hufflepuff will win. I'm going to nap for longer."

"No." Bilbo startled. It was Fili - his voice leaving no room for debate and his face equally stony. But he was looking not at Bilbo, but at  _Thorin,_ who had gathered up his things and had turned to make his way back to the castle. Bilbo hadn't even noticed - had Thorin not intended to say goodbye?

Of the two brothers, Bilbo had always thought Fili the more serious, but only because his personality had a type of calm self-assurance that didn't quite match Kili's rambunctiousness. Now, however, he saw what Kili had meant, that night of Durin's Day – Fili’s arm crossed sternly over his chest, brows furrowed and worried, brooking no arguments. "Come out with us, Uncle. You have spent too many afternoons muttering to yourself in your rooms as it is."

"Have I?" asked Thorin, amused - though he did seem distracted. His thumb rubbed at his chest, and his gaze continued to flit towards the castle.

"Yes," insisted Fili. "You have. Bilbo agrees, don't you Bilbo?"

"Oh, er," caught between the sudden intent stare of every dwarf present, Bilbo floundered and fiddled with the sleeves of his robe. "Uhm." Bofur caught his eye and nodded pointedly, and even absentminded Bifur seemed intent. Well! If this was such a serious matter - "Yes of course! We could all, erm, use the distraction."

"You see Uncle,  _Bilbo_  is going."

"Aye," put in Kili slyly. "Seems all you have to do is  _ask_   _him_ and he'll say yes."

"Enough." Thorin cleared his throat and straightened out his robes, glowering at Kili. "If we must see this game of yours, then let us leave and get it over with."

The crowd of students at the pitch had thickened into a mishmash of Hufflepuff yellow and Slytherin green. There was not so much a line to get up into the stands as there was a frenetic pushing, pulling force that fed up and onto the narrow rickety stairs. Bilbo clutched the railing like a lifeline as they climbed, ignoring the shouts and bangs of wayward spells and excitable students.

“We should sit with Hufflepuff,” Kili was saying, “since Bilbo says they’ll win.” Kili obviously was having no trouble with the height, bounding up the creaking wooden planks with ease. “Why do you think that is, Bilbo? I thought Slytherin was doing well this year.”

Bilbo shrugged, eyes on his feet and _not_ on the growing-ever-distant ground. "Their Seeker had a bit of a scandal that caused her to quit the team. And Hufflepuff I’ve heard has a fair pair of Beaters this year – and of course all of the best Seekers come from Hufflepuff. They always find the Snitch first.”

"Will you put coin on that, Baggins?" Bofur called back with a wink. "Five galleons do the trick?"

"A respectable hobbit does not  _gamble_ , Bofur!"

Thorin made a considering noise beside him. "The uncertainty would no doubt be too distressing, for the delicate constitution of a hobbit."

"I beg your pardon!"

"Perhaps a smaller sum would not seem so daunting," Thorin went on, ignoring Bilbo's sputtering at his elbow. "A single galleon, then, on Slytherin's win."

"You think I'm so spineless as that?" Bilbo shoved his hands in his pockets and counted the coins he held. He felt only two, but his blood was up. "Make that seven galleons on Hufflepuff, and you have a deal!"

Bofur cheered, Fili and Kili adding their bets as well, and Thorin looked disgustingly smug.

“Oh don’t act like you’re so clever,” Bilbo said bitterly, clutching the railing again and moving mulishly up the stairs. “I’m fully aware that I’ve just been manipulated, thank you very much, and – oh! Excuse me.” The crowd surged, and a young student, their head impressively transfigured into a badger’s, bumped his shoulder. Bilbo squeaked and rocked back.

“Careful.” Thorin steadied Bilbo at the elbow and snapped at the student, “Watch where you’re going!” The student looked back and hissed apologetically. Bilbo waved her on, breathing only a bit heavily.

“You will need to explain the rules to me,” said Thorin as they continued up and up to find their seats. He did not seem to realize that his hand was still on Bilbo’s elbow – and Bilbo saw no reason to inform him otherwise, and would happily blame his red cheeks on the wind.

“Catch the Snitch – the little gold ball – and you win 150 points and stop the game. Get the red ball, the Quaffle, through the loop and you get 10 points. That’s about it, really.” Kili had finally found a bench long enough to fit five dwarves and a hobbit. They all squeezed in amid the throng of Hufflepuff supporters, and Bilbo very determinedly did not look down.

“You are not fond of heights?” asked Thorin, coming close as the crowd grew more and more rowdy.

“You won’t find many hobbits this far off the ground.” Indeed, the dwarves themselves looked a bit out of place – Bilbo couldn’t recall having ever heard a dwarf talk about Quidditch with excitement. “Fools game,” Professor Balin had always called it, and even kind Ori couldn’t feign interest when students grew excited for Quidditch season.

“Is that why you avoid the game?” Thorin ducked out of the way when a rogue whizzpopper buzzed his ear. The horns sounded to announce the time – and the crowd held its collective breath with excitement.

“One of the reasons,” Bilbo said, “But there is another.”

“ **Welcome Quidditch fans, to what is sure to be an embarrassing defeat for Slytherin and yet another rousing success for the Hufflepuff team -** ”

“Lobelia,” he explained, almost apologetically.

The Slytherin supporters roared in protest, but Lobelia’s aptitude for vocal enhancement charms was only matched by her own obstinacy – her voice carried easily over the noise.

“ – **since Slytherin hasn’t seen a clean victory since Marah Andromedrix left the team for _personal reasons_. Such a shame the season will be through in nine months, else she could have rejoined**.”

“I thought hobbits were not fans of heights,” said Fili, bemused, from Bilbo’s other side as the Slytherin’s began boo-ing viciously.

Bilbo shrugged. “We have our suspicions that Lobelia’s grandmother was a banshee.”

And good luck to the fool who tried to take the microphone from Lobelia Sackville! If ever a person had a will to be heard, it was Lobelia; and her reputation as the castle gossip made for interesting running commentary, Bilbo had to admit, as she artfully aired the dirty laundry of each player as they entered the pitch.

“ **And there’s Lyons, flying in to lead Slytherin on a new Star Chaser 200 – a lovely model of course, and we can see where she pinched the money for it, given the state of those robes – and they’re off!** ”

Bilbo tried to pay the game mind, but his steadfast determination to not look at the ground meant that he spent a fair amount of time watching the blue sky, with players occasionally whipping by on broomsticks, smacking at each other with giant clubs. It was all very distressing.

“ **A bad bit of elbowing on Slytherin’s end, getting us off to a rocky start,”** drawled Lobelia, sounding just as uninterested in the match as Bilbo. “ **Hufflepuff’s Chaser Clawson seems to be having a difficult time recovering from the foul. Though that could have been the extra butterbeer she snuck at dinner last night. Oh dear, and now she’s fumbled the Quaffle – to Linch – to Lyons – to Villareal, shocked she’s had the time for practice with all the remedial Muggle Studies she’s been assigned this year. I wonder if she worries about graduating on time – and, there! she scores! 10 – 0, Slytherin’s lead. Isn’t _that_ a surprise.”**

“I do not understand,” said Thorin.

“Hm well, I suppose Quidditch may be confusing the first time you watch it.” Bilbo patted his hand.

Thorin ignored him, but captured his hand between his own and pulled as if to get Bilbo's attention. “If the aim is to capture the Snitch,” he said once Bilbo looked at him, “then why do they not do so right away?”

“They _would_ – but first they’ve got to find it, see.”

Thorin took away one hand - and Bilbo firmly did not notice that they were now essentially holding hands, nor did he notice how small and pale his fingers looked against Thorin's broad palm - and pointed. There at the end of the Hufflepuff goal Bilbo saw a flicker of gold – gone again in a blink. But Thorin’s finger stayed steady, moving as if pulled by a string as he effortlessly traced the Snitch’s flight.

“Wha – ” It wasn’t just Thorin. All of the dwarves were looking here, then there, then over, so that they all looked like a group of bobbing chickens.

“ **And over to Donalson, single now as I hear it, and no wonder, having got caught ‘practicing wandwork’ with that sixth year – oh dear and now he’s dropped the Quaffle, can’t hold onto anything it seems. Hufflepuff reclaims it, over to Clawson – she shoots – and misses dear me. What a disappointment. Still no sign of the Golden Snitch, though both Seekers are circling like vultures, and Brown’s got the nose to match.** ”

“It’s right under yer ruddy broomstick! Are ye blind?” Bofur was yelling, hand on his hat and his face red with exasperation beneath it. “What are you looking at the bloody sky for, ye idjit!”

“He’s obviously ill,” said Kili. Bifur made a disparaging gesture, causing a wide-eyed second year wizard to scoot away. “Ref! Pull him out! The man’s gone blind!”

Bilbo quite forgot to be frightened of heights in the face of this new information. “You can see the Snitch?”

“The golden ball, correct?” Bilbo nodded, and Thorin looked incredulous. “Of course we can see it. It’s _right there_. Can you not?”

Oh, of _course_. “Honestly, we’re not all like bloodhounds on a scent when it comes to gold!” Bilbo huffed. “The game is properly suspenseful if you aren’t a dwarf!” It was no wonder Professors Ori and Balin disliked the game - to them, able to see the Snitch so easily, it must all be dreadfully dull.

"Dwarrows have properly interesting games," said Thorin. Bilbo was unimpressed.

"Name one that does not involve physical violence."

Thorin miraculously and conveniently did not hear him. On the pitch, Slytherin's Amity Villareal had possession of the Quaffle and was making the poor decision to fly high, leaving her underbelly open for attack. Sure enough, Hufflepuff's Chasers rushed her all at once, Lynch and Clawson blocking her from the front and from above, while Donalson swooped in from below to snatch the Quaffle from Villareal’s hands.

It vanished. Donalson stared, confused, at the rock in his hand. 

The crowd gasped, and Lobelia cried, " **An illusion spell! How clever. And under-handed, of course** ," she added quickly.

At once, Slytherin's other Chaser pulled out from where he'd been flying innocuously round the pitch and hurtled towards Hufflepuff's unguarded goal, pulling the actual Quaffle from the crook of his arm and scoring an easy ten points.

"FOUL!" roared the crowd, surging to its feet in outrage. Bilbo was knocked from his feet, though Thorin caught him before he could fall forward.

" _You can't use magic on the pitch you cheat -_  oh! Mister Baggins!" piped a small voice behind him. It was Rosie, very red in the face and wearing Hufflepuff colors. "Sorry about that! But wasn't that the most terrible cheat?!"

On the pitch, Mister Grugsworth had blown the whistle for a foul, but Villareal and Lyons had swooped down to argue, their voices charmed so that all could hear Villareal shout, "Show me where it  _says_  it's against the rules!"

" **An interesting point.** " Lobelia sounded admiring. " **As we all know, players are forbidden from casting spells on themselves, their teammates, the equipment, and the audience. Charming a rock to _look_ like the Quaffle is more of a grey area. We'll see what Grugsworth decides about it.**"

The referee waved his hands, blew into his whistle, and pointed at Slytherin. Rosie's complaint joined the others' as the move was declared legal, and she sat down with a huff of disappointment. "It's a rotten, cheating move!"

"Says you." Bilbo pointed to the spectators on the Slytherin's side, who were clapping hands and congratulating each other. "Everyone rooting for Slytherin probably considers it a clever bit of magic."

"Do  _you_ , Bilbo?" Bofur peered with a grin around Thorin, whose eyes continued to track the Snitch with an almost disturbing focus. "Not so keen on your bet now, are ye!" 

Bilbo shrugged. "Not breaking the rules on a technicality means that they probably researched it beforehand. I think it's quite resourceful, though it will likely end up on the list of fouls from now on." Rosie looked crestfallen.

" **And the game resumes, with Slytherin in the lead, 40 - 0**."

Incensed by Slytherin's success, Hufflepuff had clearly decided to change their strategy entirely. Together, Clawson, Donalson, and Lynch gave up on the Quaffle, choosing instead to join their Beaters in guarding the Hufflepuff score zone. Try as they might, Slytherin could not break through the defense - which left Hufflepuff's Keeper open to scan the skies. Clever, thought Bilbo. All Hufflepuffs were good finders, after all. It made sense to have as many as possible looking for the Snitch. Murrowsworth had better hurry though, for Slytherin had turned positively brutal in trying to break through the blockade. Their Beaters claimed both Bludgers, and aimed them both at Clawson's head, forcing her to duck and break formation. Just then, Murrowswroth yelled, gesturing something to the Seeker above her. 

" **And Murrowsworth is calling to Murdoch, don't know what that signal means, but - oh! They've seen the Snitch! They’ve seen the Snitch!** "

" _Finally_ ," Kili groaned. "It's been buzzing the flags for ages!"

The rest of the spectators were more enthusiastic, and Bilbo leaped to his feet with the rest of them when Murdoch quickly looped the posts and emerge with her hand high in the air, holding the fluttering Snitch.

**"Hufflepuff wins! Hardly surprising, considering Brown spent more time ogling Amity than looking for the Snitch. Hufflepuff proceeds against Ravenclaw."**

"And whoever you say will win there, I won't argue with you," Bofur laughed, handing seven galleons over to Bilbo through the cheering crowd. Fili and Kili looked equally pleased, having bet with Bilbo, though Thorin was ignoring them all.

"Come now, pay up," Bilbo grinned. "Or is your constitution too delicate to do so?"

“I thought hobbits were not fond of Quidditch?” Thorin said again, wondering, as he dug his hand into his robe pockets, and this time Bilbo was certain he was teasing.

“Fond or no, this will teach you to question a hobbit on anything.” Cheerfully, he held his palm open – and Thorin pulled a large a purse from his robes. Opening the draw strings, Thorin looked into the bag for a long moment, and counted out seven gold coins with arduous concentration. He ran his fingers over the carvings in the coins, and looked from them, to Bilbo’s hand, and back again, with a look of deep deliberation.

Mind made up, he poured the coins back into the purse and replaced it in his robes. “Hey now!” Bilbo cried, “I won that fair and square. You were the one who wanted to bet so badly! Pay up!"

“Back at the castle,” Thorin said calmly. “You are more apt to drop them on the way down – particularly in this crowd.”

“Fine. But don’t think I’ll forget!”

With a noncommittal hum, Thorin waved Bilbo on. He said goodbye to Rosie, promising to see her in the dormitories later, and walked down the stairs with even more care than he had coming up them. Hufflepuff and their supporters were frantic – rushing down to the pitch to greet their team and celebrate. Behind him, Fili and Kili were talking loudly about how impressive a team of dwarrows would be in Quidditch, since they would catch the Snitch without fail.

“They’d have to make it out of a different substance, so we couldn’t automatically see it,” Kili thought aloud.

“Perhaps out of essay parchment?” asked Bilbo innocently, “Since you’re so keen on avoiding your homework?”

“Oh _hah_ , the hobbit is _funny_ ,” Kili nudged Bilbo’s shoulder, tumbling him from the last step onto the grass. The short distance did not make a difference to Bilbo’s mind, and he let out an undignified squeak as he stumbled to the ground.

"The hobbit is  _fragile!"_ Hand against his heart, Bilbo glared at Kili, who snickered and grabbed Fili's elbow. 

"Come on," he pulled, 'we have time to bother Ori before his next lesson." Fili rolled his eyes, looking over at the crowd of cheering Hufflepuffs at the pitch. 

"You go. I want to see if a Quidditch celebration is any more exciting than a Quidditch game. Bifur? Bofur?" 

They agreed readily, and Fili clapped them on the back, pushing away Kili's pouting face with his palm. "Bilbo, how about it? Uncle, will you come?" Fili stopped, paused, and looked around. Thorin had left. 

"Did he go back to the castle?" Bilbo stood on his toes, but even craning his neck he could not distinguish Thorin from the crowd of students milling back to Hogwarts. "He should have said. I wonder what his hurry was?" 

He looked to Fili, who changed his expression quickly to one of nonchalance. "He's been busy with Balin, these past few weeks, planning. Since the potion, you know. How about it Bilbo? Shall we celebrate with the Hufflepuffs?" 

"No thank you." Bilbo looked back at the castle. "I need to get back to studying. You were right though," he told them, "I needed the break. Thanks for it. Save me a seat at supper?" 

They promised they would, and Bilbo waved and made his way through the crowd back up to Hogwarts. Thankfully, the library seemed to be the last place anyone wanted to visit after a Quidditch game, and so Bilbo had an easy time breaking away from the rest of the students and walking through the corridors unimpeded. 

Despite the clearness of his path, Bilbo took the wrong turn three times, distracted by the memory of Fili's face, almost brokenhearted, when he'd realized Thorin had left; and of how Thorin himself had held the gold coins in his hands so close to his chest, as if he could not bear to part with them, as if they were made of something more infinitely precious than gold.  


	14. An Invitation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your amazing support of this fic! Every comment and kudos reminds me that there are actually people reading this story. 
> 
> Special thanks and credit go to Nemo_Aves for inspiring a scene in this chapter (you know which one). A particular comment of theirs fit so well with the story, that I had to incorporate it. Though I'm afraid the scene may not go as you had originally thought...

November flew by in a haze of prep work and studying. Before Bilbo knew it, the halls had cleared of fallen leaves and glowing candles. December had arrived, and as students scrambled to review notes and finish projects, slowly the castle grew warmer and brighter with decorations for the Yule. 

End-of-term examinations had taken the castle by storm, and Bilbo had found himself with more company than dwarves in the library. Tables groaned under the weight of so many books, and alarm spells shrieked when students sneaked snacks and drinks out of their bags. More than one first year had broken down under the stress of studying and had lost control of their magic - sending rain and winds and, once very memorably, a zinging newt all through the library. 

Yet in Professor Ori's classroom all was quiet, save for the scratching of quills and the occasional despairing sigh, as every student worked to complete their final exams. The atmosphere was much more serious than it had been during Professor Bombur's exam - where all they had needed to do was create "something marvelous" from the ground. Bilbo, who had grown quite skilled at combining earth magic with growing magic, had grown a life-sized, stone replica of the Shire's Party Tree, which had as a final touch sprouted actual green leaves. Professor Bombur had been very impressed. 

Professor Ori, on the other hand, had assigned them all a much more difficult exam. Bilbo suspected Nori's hand in it, considering the intricacy of the runes they were meant to unlock. To make matters even more serious, the exam was spelled so that the parchment would not allow you to leave your seat until you had completed each question correctly. Rufus Proudfoot - who loved to tease and mock Bilbo's habit of studying - had been sitting at his desk, poring over his paper, for the past twelve hours. The other students had taken to leaving him snacks. 

Bilbo, on the other hand, was not facing such problems. Not only had he - very proudly, he might add - studied appropriately, but he had watched Nori disarm enough spells to pick up a trick or two. And if some students looked side-eyed at Bilbo when he prodded, sniffed, and listened to the runes on his parchment, well, none of them finished quite so quickly as he!

"Well done Bilbo," Professor Ori smiled when Bilbo handed over his parchment with distinct pleasure. It was always so satisfying, turning in the final exam of the term! "It was a pleasure to teach you," Ori added, somewhat shyly. "Please do keep in touch!"

"Oh," said Bilbo, taken aback. "Yes, yes of course!" 

It had completely escaped his notice but, Bilbo was done, wasn't he? This was his seventh year at Hogwarts. He never had to take another exam again. "Ever," he realized, leaving the room in a daze. 

(Behind him, he could hear Professor Ori sigh. "Bathroom break  _again,_  Mister Proudfoot? Very well. Hurry back! And don't think I won't know if you cheat while you're gone!") 

"I'm finished!" Bilbo thought again. No more Charms, no more Potions, no more Earth Magic - the only class he had left was his service report with Gandalf next semester. "Then I'm home." 

He felt almost dizzy at the thought. The past seven years had been crammed with non-stop classes. To have them suddenly end like this - it was as if his brain were echoing, faced with a future of free time without the slightest idea of how to fill it. 

Bilbo walked the halls a bit aimlessly, heading slowly towards the Great hall, where he had promised to meet Nori and Dwalin for a game of chess. As he went, the quiet of the castle closed around him. So many students had already left for home - all the hobbits were still here, of course, but most of Bilbo's Housemates had returned home for the holidays. He remained the only hobbit in Ravenclaw, and he had the entire dormitory to himself, though Bilbo knew that most of his Housemates would be back for the Yule ball next week. 

The thought cheered Bilbo considerably. How could he be upset, when Yule was just around the corner? Frozen crystals and icicles littered the Great Hall, glittering like diamonds - holly and ivy and thick evergreens lined the halls, and on every corner, the house elves continued to leave plates of fresh, warm biscuits, so that everything smelled of cinnamon and frosting.

The dwarves, too, were preparing for their own celebration of the season.  _Yuleblot_ , as Bilbo had heard Bifur call it, evidently called for entirely different forms of dress. All the dwarves now wore robes of dark black - though Thorin's, Fili's, and Kili's were lined blue - and they had all taken to twisting their beards and hair in patterns so complex, it made Bilbo dizzy to look at them. 

They no longer wore beads, nor jewels either. This had startled Bilbo at first, especially when he'd noticed midway through Potions that Thorin's square ring was missing from his left hand. 

"Oh heavens!" he'd cried, almost upsetting their shared cauldron as he peered into the rippling purple potion. "Your ring! Did it fall in?"

"Of course not." Thorin had reached into his robes' pockets and pulled out a large handful of treasures - his rings, yes, but also a great number of coins and gems, including the blue-green bead which Bilbo had so admired before. 

" _Yuleblot_ is a time to mourn the passing of our mothers. We do not adorn ourselves during the darker months, until we acknowledge their passing" Thorin had explained.

"But you carry it all around with you in your pockets?" 

Bilbo had only meant to tease, but Thorin's bright eyes had flashed, and he'd closed his fist defensively. "I keep close to mine," he'd growled, voice low, pocketing it all once more before returning to work. 

Bilbo sighed. Thorin had been so hot-and-cold, these past few weeks. One moment, he would be attentively listening to Bilbo ramble on about charms, and the next his attention would wander, as if thinking of far grander things than hobbit magic. In fact, all of Bilbo's friends were acting oddly. Kili had been badgering about Ori's office for the past few weeks almost relentlessly, moping about during meals and classes, and Bifur had taken to visiting Beorn on a daily basis. 

But nobody was acting more oddly than Thorin. At times he seemed filled with a restless energy, as if a fire burnt inside of him, and those were the times when he grew snappish and harsh. Yet there were other moments where he fell into darker, almost sulking, moods. 

Bilbo had seen less and less of him as Yule approached - he had stopped supplementing Balin's lessons and hadn't been to Earth Magic in more than a week. Bilbo had grown so concerned that he'd brought the matter up with Fili during Care of Magical Creatures. 

"You mean he  _still_ hasn't talked to y -" Fili had coughed, frowned, and changed tack. "I don't know what to tell you, Bilbo," he'd said, looking equal parts worried and exasperated. "He disappears sometimes for ages. We thought he'd been - well," he'd coughed again. "I suspect he's busy, this time of year." 

And no matter how Bilbo pressed him, Fili would speak no further on the subject than, "It's Uncle's business, not mine," as if he were trying to convince himself. 

What little Bilbo  _did_ see of Thorin came in short bursts, usually with Dwalin standing sternly behind them as Thorin made very distracted conversation. 

He’d been particularly agitated the last time he’d spoken with Bilbo over dinner. "You are...looking forward to the Yule, yes?" he'd asked Bilbo, looking with great concentration at something over Bilbo's head. 

"Of course. I've told you before." 

Thorin had frowned distractedly, pushing the potatoes around on his plate in a rare show of appalling table manners. "Have you?"

"Yes. Practically two days ago, don't you remember?" At Thorin's blank look, Bilbo had rolled his eyes. "I always look forward to Yule. Everyone does. It's lovely." 

Thorin had only hmmm'ed, poked his food, and then left the table with a vague, "Must check on Kili's work." Dwalin had looked thunderous.

Though, perhaps Bilbo did not have much to worry about, seeing as how "thunderous" was Dwalin's default expression. He certainly did not look happy now, as Bilbo walked into the Great Hall. The ceiling was snowing, fuzzy white flakes melting as they met the floating candles, which sputtered and filled the hall with a warm flickering light. Dwalin and Nori were at at a small table by the fire, a chess set ignored between them. Bilbo could not hear what they were saying, but Dwalin looked even more belligerent than usual. Across from him, Nori lounged with a wide smile.

"Afternoon, Bilbo!" waved Nori when Bilbo drew close. "Took your time finishing up. I've already beat this old fart twice now. You'd think a  _shomakh_  would be better with strategies." Nori stood up to give Bilbo his seat and moved to perch on Dwalin's chair. 

Visibly resisting the urge to push Nori off the armrest, Dwalin scowled. "A warrior with only one means of attack is only marginally better than useless." 

"It's  _chess_ ," stressed Nori, rolling his eyes. "That's the  _point_." Bilbo felt as if this were an old argument. 

He sat down and rolled up his sleeves. "I can give you a bit more of a challenge, if you like, Nori." 

"No." Nori settled back and, with a complicated gesture, summoned a plate of biscuits from the Head Table. "I swore fifty years ago I'd turn this one into a fair player, and I am many things, but I am no liar." He bit into a biscuit in a prim gesture that put Bilbo in mind of Dori. 

Dwalin snorted. 

"So what we're going to do," Nori went on as if he had not heard, though his elbow did dig into Dwalin's side, "is  _you'll_ play Dwalin, Mr. Baggins, and I'll help him along until he gets the hang of it." 

"Alright," Bilbo said, reaching for a biscuit himself before directing a battle-scarred pawn forward a square. Dwalin sighed, but responded in kind. 

As they played, Bilbo wondered why Dwalin even bothered. It was obvious he had little to no interest in the game - not through lack of understanding, as Dwalin very obviously knew the rules, but rather, Bilbo suspected, due to boredom. 

Perhaps it made sense. If Dwalin really were a warrior, a shamukor whatever Nori had said, then Bilbo would not be surprised if chess weren't stimulating enough. It'd be rather like forcing a famous Quidditch player to play catch. 

Still, Nori at least was enjoying himself, whispering strategies in Dwalin's ear that the other dwarf almost always ignored, and rolling his eyes at Bilbo whenever Dwalin threatened to leave the game - which was often. 

"It is  _not_ a waste of time," said Bilbo hotly when Dwalin snarled at Nori to let him go. 

"You're only a sore loser," agreed Nori as Bilbo's rook shattered Dwalin's bishop. "I  _told_ you going for the knight was a trap!" 

"A waste of time playing," continued Dwalin, ignoring Nori, "when there are other things that need to be done."

Bilbo perked up. "Are you particularly busy?" 

"Eh, we're all busy," said Nori, lounging back and tugging out one of his braids. Dwalin had no response - indeed, he seemed quite distracted as Nori reworked the braid - and Bilbo awkwardly cleared his throat. 

"You have all seemed preoccupied lately. Something to do with Yule?" 

"Aye." Dwalin snapped his gaze away from Nori's fingers. "Balin and Thorin need my help with planning, and Kili's going to explode, if he doesn't press his suit soon." 

"His  _suit_?" Bilbo gave the game up as abandoned. The pieces all sat down, rubbing their feet and collecting their own shrapnel. "His suit to  _whom?_ " 

The answer, Bilbo saw, laid in the way Nori had grown almost preternaturally still. "His suit," he repeated dangerously. "This wouldn't have anything to do with his requesting extra lessons from Ori, of course." 

Dwalin suddenly gained an intense appreciation for the chessboard. “Kili’s business is his own,” he said, not looking at Nori. “Give him a break. Not like you don’t know your family’s turned the heads of every dwarf this side of the stone. Kili’s allowed to admire him – not hurting anyone.”

“He’s allowed to admire him, certainly,” Nori sniffed, tucking his braid behind his ear. “He'd have to be blind, not to. But  _press his suit_. I don’t recall giving my approval for him to sniff around my baby brother – and as the brat still has his arms, I'm guessing he didn’t ask Dori, either.”

“Dori!” Dwalin scoffed, a bitter twist to his mouth. “Better luck getting approval from a rock, than Dori!”

"As if you'd know!"

Bilbo felt decidedly uncomfortable. The air had shifted from easy playfulness to one of very bad feeling, and so suddenly. He had thought Dwalin and Nori were good friends, but he’d seen vipers more docile than Nori right now, and Dwalin seemed to be one wrong word away from reaching for his axes.

Bilbo sat very still and tried to make himself unnoticeable.

Nori stood now, leaning threateningly over a still-seated Dwalin. “No harm in looking, eh? You’ve changed your tune! What about the time you had  _kittens_ when old Fergin paid for my drinks?”

“You were barely 70, and he was married.” Dwalin crossed his arms menacingly. “And he wanted more than drinks, and you know it. Kili only wants to take Ori to this ball thing, anyhow.  _You_ know how he drags his feet around. Runs in the family. Look at Thorin! He still hasn’t asked Bilbo – ” he bit down on his words with a snap that could crack teeth, but it was too late.

"No." Bilbo sat back, quite shocked, and not entirely certain he’d heard correctly.  _"Drags his feet - runs in the family - he still hasn't asked Bilbo -"_

“Thorin’s going to ask…me? No. Really?”

And just like that, the quarrelsome air was gone. Nori sat back on the arm of Dwalin's chair, and Dwalin himself appeared uncharacteristically uncomfortable, almost apologetic. “Ah, no lad,” he said, quite obviously hedging. “That’s – er."

“That’s something Thorin’s going to have to talk to you about himself,” said Nori stoutly, cutting off Dwalin with a stern look.

“Aye,” agreed Dwalin, and Bilbo nodded distractedly. His mind flitted around so quickly, he could barely think straight. That Thorin wanted to go to the ball at all was astounding – that he wanted to go with  _Bilbo_ …

“Excuse me,” Bilbo said, pushing back from the table. “I’ll, um, see you both at dinner,” and he hastily walked from the hall, waving when Dwalin sputtered a protest.

Thorin wanted to go to the ball! Thorin wanted to go to the ball, with Bilbo! He could hardly believe it. The rational part of his mind pointed out that friends often went as friends together to the Yule; but a brighter, more bubbly part of him was remembering Thorin’s awkwardness whenever the ball was mentioned, his avoidance, his strange behavior, his agitation as the ball approached - could they all simply be the result of nerves?

And would a friend, that same hopeful part of Bilbo wondered, be so nervous about asking another friend? Or did it signify something else? Bilbo picked up his pace, striding more quickly to Professor Balin’s office, where surely Thorin and Balin were planning, as Dwalin had said.

Thorin was fond of being mysterious, and he was horribly emotionally stunted, but Bilbo had never seen the point in dawdling. He knew his answer – friend or…or otherwise, he’d be delighted to go to the ball with Thorin. And if  _Thorin_  had not the courage to ask, well, Bilbo’s mother had been the first hobbit Head Girl from Gryffindor. Bilbo had surely inherited at least some of her bravery.

Professor Balin’s door was shut. Behind it, Bilbo could hear voices speaking, low and hurried – “So soon?” “No, sooner – it would have to be tomorrow.” – they cut off as soon as Bilbo knocked. He waited, impatient to not lose his nerve, and knocked again.

The door opened up with a creak – though not to someone Bilbo expected.

It was Gandalf, who seemed just as surprised to see Bilbo as Bilbo was to see him.

“Bilbo Baggins,” he said, nonplussed. Behind him, there was a scattering noise, as if a handful of papers had been dropped. “Why,” continued Gandalf, “we were just speaking of you!”

“Erm, were you?”

“Come in come in.” Gandalf bustled Bilbo into the classroom, closing the door behind him with a suspicious look into the hallway.

Balin’s desk was covered with papers. The professor himself stood looking over the spread like a general surveying plans for battle, and beside him was Thorin – looking both more tired and more frenetic than Bilbo had ever seen him. “Bilbo,” he said, his voice sounding far away.

“Erm, hello.”

“Just the hobbit we were looking for!” exclaimed Balin. He waved Bilbo to come closer. “Come, take a look at this. Have you decided yet on – ” Thorin cleared his throat pointedly, and gave a small shake of his head.

Balin’s eyebrow shot up to his hairline. “ _Still_?” he asked incredulously. “You still have not asked?”

“I was going to. I've been distracted by other things.”

Now, in front of Thorin looking so preoccupied and agitated, Bilbo could feel his courage failing. He was curious about the papers, but he did not go over to the table – he knew that if he allowed himself to be distracted, what little of Belladona’s bravery would leave him entirely. He stayed by the door, and caught Thorin’s eye.

“Can we speak, erm, outside. For a moment?”

“Excellent idea!” said Balin, more stern than happy. He strong-armed Thorin towards the door. He looked very much like Dwalin, despite being half his size; and to Bilbo’s surprise, Thorin allowed himself to be hustled out the door without complaint. “You have a great deal to talk about.”

“Do we?” asked Bilbo, before Gandalf again shut the door, leaving Thorin and Bilbo alone in the hallway. Bilbo cleared his throat. “Do we?” he repeated and looked up at Thorin. Hands clasped behind his back, shoulders ramrod straight, and his gaze studiously averted – Thorin may have seemed dignified to a passer-by, but to Bilbo, he looked rather adrift.

At once, he found his resolve return. If Thorin felt so awkward about asking Bilbo, then of course Bilbo would ask him instead. The ridiculous dwarf! 

“I had a question for you,” said Bilbo. He waited until Thorin looked at him, before taking a deep breath. “Would you want, or…well, I know you’re very busy, obviously, and you have been for a while now, but – would you be able, do you think, to go to the Yule Ball? With me, I mean.”

Thorin’s face cleared of its guarded look, to be replaced with frank astonishment. He blinked at Bilbo, furrowed his brow, and replied:

“No. Not at all.”

 No? Bilbo’s mind stuttered to a halt. “N-no?” he echoed dumbly. “You don’t want to go?”

“Of course not,” Thorin looked honestly baffled. “Why on earth would I?”

All of Bilbo’s nerves, which had been building up into an excited mass in his belly, felt suddenly sharp and chilled as ice. Had he misunderstood so completely? Bilbo let out his breath and felt his heart sink.

“Well,” he said, his neck burning as Thorin continued to look at him. “Well. I just thought I’d ask, is all.” Thorin nodded, and his obvious confusion was so painful to Bilbo – was the thought of going to the Yule with Bilbo so outrageous? – that suddenly Bilbo could not stand to be there any longer. Oh, his garden for an invisibility cloak! “I interrupted you earlier,” he said, beginning to babble when he felt his face turn red. “Sorry. But that was all I wanted to ask, and I’ve got, erm, my answer, and I've actually got somewhere to be right now, so I’ll just let you get to it.”

And before Thorin could do something truly awful, like realize BIlbo's intent and try to be gentle with Bilbo’s feelings, Bilbo turned on his heel and ran. 

 


	15. Farewells Unsaid

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's this? Three updates in a week? Those of you who have been along for the ride since the beginning know how unprecedented that is! Again, thank you all so much for your support. It really does mean more than you'd think.

The stone floor on the way to the dormitory felt cold in a way Bilbo did not normally notice with his thick, hobbit feet - which clearly went along with his thick, hobbit head. Oh, what  _had_ he been thinking?!

Thorin was a prince, soon to be a king. Bilbo should have been grateful that Thorin had taken the time to be his friend, let alone even noticed a hobbit in the first place! And Bilbo had taken all of that - all of Thorin's hard-won smiles, his bullheaded kindness, his terrible attempts at conversation, his truly  _gorgeous_  gift with magic - and had gobbled it up with the gall to ask for more.

" _Not that way._ "

Without thinking, he changed his path from the dorms to the library. Certainly he had spoiled everything. If Bilbo's question hadn't revealed how he felt - and how  _did_  he feel, that was a question he truly did not want to ask himself - then surely the way he'd run off would clue Thorin in that something was wrong. Bilbo was mortified. What  _had_ he been thinking!

" _This way, Bilbo Baggins_."

Stopped dead in his tracks, Bilbo finally registered the strange voice. He glanced around the corridor: empty, save for a second-year student asleep over her notes. "H-hello?" he ventured. Was he going mad? That would be perfect - the perfect excuse. Should Thorin catch up to him, Bilbo could claim temporary insanity.

 _"All is well. Calm your mind, and come away._ "

And there again! It took a moment for Bilbo to realize that he  was not hearing the words from the outside world - instead they echoed uncomfortably in his mind, like the whisper of wind through a cave. Screwing his eyes shut, Bilbo focused and thought as clearly as possible, " _I beg your pardon?_ "

Instantly, he felt a tendril of amusement not his own, and a familiar voice spoke in his mind. " _Come away to my office, Bilbo Baggins, if you will. We have much to discuss."_

Oh. Thought Bilbo. Perfect. " _Yes ma'am,_ " he thought to Professor Galadriel. " _I'll be there in a moment_."

__________________

Bilbo had been in the headmaster's office just once before, when Professor Saruman had been headmaster. At the start of Bilbo's fifth year, Professor Saruman had called Bilbo in to try and convince Bilbo to serve as a Prefect. Bilbo had refused, partly on account of his large courseload, and due to the fact that the Prefect's baths were far too large for a water-fearing hobbit.

But mostly Bilbo had refused, because the position would require him to give weekly reports in the headmaster's office, and no amount of respectable responsibility could tempt Bilbo to endure the hard iron lines and unwelcoming white walls of that place longer than necessary.

But Professor Saruman had retired, off to "further his studies abroad," whatever that meant; and in his stead, Professor Galadriel had agreed to oversee Hogwarts until a suitable replacement could be found.

This had greatly improved the office. Professor Galadriel had obviously redecorated, or perhaps the room had simply shifted to meet the needs of its occupant. Whatever the reason, the open, spiraling beams of the ceiling let in gorgeous amounts of late-afternoon light, and a small magical fountain gurgled somewhere in the upper lofts. Even the floorboards were warmer, smooth and pale as elanor; and Bilbo could hear a faint whisper of birdsong in the air.

All of this did not surprise Bilbo. Professor Galadriel exuded peace and tranquility, and edhils did not do well indoors for long periods of time.

What  _did_  give him pause - what seemed out of place - was the tray of hot lavender tea, with a side plate of lemons cut into spirals, just the way Bilbo's father used to make them. The tray sat on Professor Galadriel's desk, with a hobbit-sized tea cup just beside it. To complete the set, a plate of poppy-seed biscuits waited neatly by the tray. Precisely the things necessary to soothe an upset Bilbo Baggins.

 _Precisely_ the thing. Lavender tea was his favorite, and poppy-seed biscuits a treat he did not allow himself regularly.

Bilbo forgot, sometimes, just how powerful Professor Galadriel was: a gifted seer, a prodigious legilimens, and an edhil of considerable power besides. She had protected Lothlorien from the Battle of Smaug all those years ago, with shield charms hundreds of times stronger than those at Hogwarts - and here Bilbo was, astonished that she had foreseen something as simple as an upset hobbit. More unbelievable, that she had  _cared,_ and had looked to see what would make him feel better.

"Thank you, professor," he said, as soon as he entered and saw the tea.

Professor Galadriel was not an edhil given to wide smiles. She had lived too long, Bilbo supposed, and now gave off the air of grave kindness - as if she had seen too little of it in the world, and knew it for the necessity it was.

So while she did not smile, or wave Bilbo into the room, her face was welcoming when she said, "Sit," and she glided over to her desk from the window with a grace that made Bilbo feel like a tottering fool.

Bilbo obeyed, though he made no move to touch the tea things. "Can I help you with something, professor?"

She did not answer him right away, watching him instead with a gaze as unnerving and beautiful as the motionless sea. It filled him with a sense of foreboding, the expectation of something momentous yet to come. He wished he had studied Occlumency more thoroughly, or maybe even Legilimency. Bilbo did not suspect that Galadriel would read his thoughts uninvited, but it was a bit unsettling that she  _could_ , should she want to.

He was so unnerved the he had quite thoroughly forgotten that he had even asked a question. As such, her reply caught him off guard. "You will." She said, and finally looked away from Bilbo to look pointedly at the tea in front of him. "Yet first you must relax. I have just been in counsel with Mithrandir."

"With Gandalf?" Oh marvelous. Had  _Gandalf_  overheard?

"Yes. We have spoken together at great length over the mission of Thorin Oakenshield and his company." She paused, the hint of a smile gentling her face. "I expect the matter has weighed heavily on Mithrandir's mind, these past months."

"Er." Bilbo, uncertain of how much he could reveal, hemmed and hawed and applied himself to his tea. It was perfect - amazing - smooth yet tart, exactly how Bilbo preferred it.

"I have spoken, as well, with Thorin Oakenshield himself." Galadriel looked away, pouring herself a goblet of water - or was it something else? It glimmered like starlight - though the goblet remained untouched on her desk. "He is determined, for many things. I suspect he was not pleased with my refusing him the sword of Gryffindor, some weeks past."

"He asked you for the sword of Gryffindor?" Bilbo looked up. At the back of the office, in a place of pride, there hung the sword just below the portraits of those who had wielded it against evil.

Galadriel inclined her head. "He did. Though only after his own attempts at finding the sword for himself proved fruitless." Bilbo remembered Kili on the Quidditch pitch, flying around the castle. He had been looking for Gryffindor's sword, then?

"But you didn't let him have it. Professor," Bilbo fiddled with a biscuit, crumbling it on the plate in his lap. "Did Thorin tell you  _why_  he wanted the sword? 

"Of course," she replied easily. "Long have I known of Thorin Oakenshield's purpose here. Dwarrows delight in their secrets, yet to my surprise, the day I called Thorin Oakenshield into my office, he told me that nothing of true value could be gained through means of deceit, however well-intended. He claimed to have learned the lesson here, at Hogwarts, from a particularly bright student of ours." A lump rose in Bilbo's throat, and he took another quick sip of tea. "He revealed all, and I cannot deny that I have a particular interest in his goal. The leaves of Lorien shine on their quest. It is a noble venture."

"Do you think?" Bilbo wondered aloud, stomach sour as he thought of how little he had seen of Thorin lately, and of how easy it seemed for his friend to leave him behind - and a small, petty part of him still stung from his rejection. "A treasure hunt, a  _dangerous_ treasure hunt - a quest for glory and riches. Not so noble."

Galadriel folded her hands on her desk. "Perhaps not to the rest of the world," she reprimanded, though not unkindly. "We must remember that the way of dwarrows is different from the ways of hobbits." Bilbo flinched.

He had known that there was a barrier between he and his friends. No matter how much they called him dwarf-friend, he couldn't ever truly be a dwarf - and they could never be hobbits. They had had their misunderstandings, but hadn't they come a long way in the months the dwarves had been here? 

Bilbo nodded glumly, and Galadriel pushed his tea cup closer in a not-so-subtle command to drink. "The dwarrows of Erebor and the Iron Hills have felt the loss of Khazad-Dum like a taken limb. Imagine the bounteous green of the Shire lost beneath an eternal snow. Would not your people mourn its beauty? Would not the restoration of fruitful harvest bring inspiration and joy? Yet the men of this world would find it fickle, to cling so tightly to a lost land for want of mere food."

"It's not about  _food_ ," said Bilbo hotly. "We don't love the Shire because of its  _crops_. Well," he considered, "certainly that's what allows us to live there, but we love it because...because of the goodness of green growing things! Because it's ours."  

Galadriel nodded consideringly. "The edhils of Lothlorien have a similar love for things which grow - particularly trees, as they speak to our hearts in a way I imagine is similar to how dwarrows hear the stone."

A memory of Bofur singing to the earth to coax out jewels flashed through Bilbo's mind, overlapped with the sound of his mother's voice encouraging the flowers to grow. Perhaps they were not so different, after all, he thought begrudgingly.

"Thorin Oakenshield's recovery of the halls would lead his people to an era of hope and industry, the likes of which I have not seen in an age. So you see, Bilbo Baggins, it _is_ a noble venture, and beautiful as well. Did not you yourself express a wish to see the land?"

"Me?" Bilbo sputtered, bewildered. He had done so, yes, in the final conclusion of his essay on Professor Ori's translation of The Desolation of Smaug. He still remembered how he had felt after reading the script, how full of restless energy and the desire to see forests, and mountains blackened with dragonfire. "Did - I wasn't aware you had read my analysis, professor."

"I make it a point to read the better works of my students. Particularly those with such promise and passion for what they do." She graciously did not comment on Bilbo's red face. "Your appreciation for languages and histories has not gone unnoticed by your professors, Bilbo Baggins. And I cannot deny my love for my own country. You describe it well. You would be welcome there, in Lorien, should you wish to further your studies."

This was too much. All of this, just to cheer up a hobbit? "Thank you, professor," he said quickly, "but I'll be going straight home, after the next semester."

Galadriel accepted this easily. "I see," she said. "We all of us cannot deny a draw to our homes. We cannot fault Thorin Oakenshield for desiring the same. And yet - " She broke off, seeming to look past Bilbo, face calm and distant as if dreaming. "A darkness lies down his path through which I cannot see. At times there flickers a light, like starlight through a dimming cloud, and yet other times the darkness spreads like a choking fog. One thing is constant, however, and that is the strength of conviction in Thorin Oakenshield. He is not a dwarf to do things by halves."

Bilbo sipped at his tea, stomach soothed by the warmth and smell. "Professor," he asked, looking down with a bit of a smile. "Are you trying to cheer me up by saying that Thorin is too busy to be wasting time with a hobbit?"

"Wasting time," she repeated, fondness creeping into her low voice. "No, Bilbo Baggins, I do not believe that Thorin Oakenshield considers any time spent with you as wasted. My only wish was to share tea with a hobbit who could appreciate its quality. Yet I can see that the time has come to return you to your dormitories. Perhaps, before you go, you would appreciate a different turn for your mind."

"A different turn?"

Galadriel hummed. "Have you listened to the singing of birds, Bilbo Baggins?"

"Erm," Bilbo blinked somewhat stupidly at the non-sequitur. "Not particularly, no." 

"A shame. They have brought a new song. Listen for it. There are many who would count themselves your friend, aside from the dwarrows."

"Y-yes ma'am," said Bilbo, bewildered.

Galadriel rose to her feet, robes shimmering in the light of the afternoon.

"Drink your tea, Bilbo Baggins, and remember what you have written. The hour grows late, and you will be needed soon."

__________________

The constellations on the Ravenclaw dorm's ceiling spun in slow, glittering turns. Alone in the common room, and therefore free to take up as much space as he pleased, Bilbo lay on his back on the sofa and turned over Professor Galadriel's words as he watched the stars move.

With a full belly and a calmer mind, he could look back and realize that he could not fault Thorin for being distracted - and one ball turned down did not mean the collapse of a friendship. Thorin had enough on his shoulders. Bilbo didn't know how he found the time to sleep, never mind anything else. Why, imagine if Bilbo had to lead a group of hobbits on a secret mission to reclaim the Shire. Planning for the meals alone would take ages!

He would apologize, next he saw Thorin - and when it came down to it, Bilbo could always pass everything off as a friendly misunderstanding. Should Thorin ask why Bilbo ran away, he could explain - quite truthfully - that he had needed to meet with Professor Galadriel.

Perhaps he would have stern words with Dwalin and Nori, though, for getting his hopes up - but no, that wasn't right, was it? Dwalin had only said that Thorin had intended to ask Bilbo  _something_. Bilbo had been the one to presume.

"Well, what the bother else was he going to ask me about?" Bilbo groused.

"Muddlewumps," came Thorin's muffled voice.

"What?" Bilbo sat up and looked to the door, where there came four heavy knocks. Again, Bilbo heard Thorin speak. "Muddlewumps, you blasted bird! I answered you correctly, now let me pass!"

As he slid off the cushions, Bilbo heard the eagle reply. "I will not let you in, whether your answer is true or no."

"Do not cross me, Meneldor." Bilbo paused, hand on the doorknob, and shivered. Thorin had always spoken with a rough and deep timbre; but nothing so low as this. Had Bilbo not heard him as he had knocked on the door, he wouldn't have thought it Thorin's voice at all. "I know your kind, and I have the charms to undo you, should I wish."

Oh, Thorin must be very upset with Bilbo indeed! He lingered, despairing for a moment, before he could gather up his resolve. He had been brave enough to ask Thorin to the ball. Certainly he could be brave enough to hear Thorin's rejection. He opened the door.

Sure enough there stood Thorin, face positively transformed with anger. He looked quite frightening for a split second, but then he caught sight of Bilbo, and he was himself again.

"Bilbo." Thorin spoke in the same tone one used when offering condolences. "May I come in?"

"If you feel you must," Bilbo sighed, then smiled to show he was teasing. Thorin's shoulders softened somewhat, and the worry lines around his mouth diminished. Still, he walked into the dormitory with the solemnity of one walking to their execution.

"Leave the door open," the eagle's voice rang out when Bilbo made to close the door.

Oh perfect. Just what Bilbo needed - innuendo from a bird. "That won't be necessary," he said, pushing at the stone wall. 

It didn't budge. "I am afraid I must insist, Baggins," the knocker said.

Fine! Barely resisting the urge to throw his hands in the air, Bilbo sighed gustily and turned to face Thorin. "No one else is here anyway," he told Thorin, who stood in the center of the Common Room, staring at the sun dial intently. "So I suppose it doesn't matter."

Thorin nodded and turned to face Bilbo fully; though before he did, Bilbo caught sight of his hands, clenched tightly behind his back and fidgeting.

His stomach jumped with nerves. "Will you sit? The house elves usually bring snacks around this time."

"Thank you," said Thorin. "I will stand."  

"...alright." A beat of silence. "Let's get it over with, then," he said, resigned. Nervous he may be, Bilbo had never seen the point in lollygagging when one's mind was made up. He crossed his arms and waited.

"These rooms are a very fine colour," Thorin finally said, before immediately scowling heavily - as if angry with himself - shaking his head, and saying: "I have meant to speak with you about something, these few months past."

Here it was! "Have you?"

Thorin nodded, holding his gaze for a brief moment, before dropping his eyes and reaching into the folds of his robes. In a rush of panic, Bilbo worried that he was reaching for the Arkenstone again, and Bilbo would be faced once again with its hauntingly beautiful light. But no, Thorin held only an old piece of parchment. "The potion which Oin made will not preserve much longer," he said. "If we are to enter the halls and free my forefather, it must be soon."

"I see," said Bilbo. Then he saw that what Thorin was holding was in fact the map from the library, and the pieces clicked together in his mind with a hollow certainty. Suddenly, the preoccupied behavior of his friends these past few weeks made much more sense. "You're leaving." 

Thorin's reticence, the papers spread across Balin's desk, Dwalin and Nori speaking of things to prepare for - "You're all leaving,"  _me,_ he finished the thought privately.

"Yes," said Thorin. "All save Ori, who has grown fond of his post here. We are soon to leave."

Soon. "When?"

"Tomorrow."

Bilbo gasped. "To _mor_ row!"

Thorin nodded jerkily, then made a sharp turn to a nearby table. "Here." He gestured Bilbo forward and lay the map out between them. Ravens flew about the map in seemingly random patterns, some roosting in trees and others flying high above mountain ranges. Thorin pointed to two of them. "Each raven marks a point of travel."

"A what?"

Thorin looked up with impatience - unreasonable impatience, Bilbo thought. "I believe wizards call it a Portkey." He inclined his head, as if to say  _may I continue_?

"Right then. Portkey. Point of travel." Bilbo held up his hands. "Go on, please."

"The ravens show the location of the points of travel, and each point of travel will take us one step closer to the mountain. We have been in counsel with Gandalf, who has the connections necessary to establish a Portkey for us to arrive here." His finger covered a small black bird, which fluttered out of the way before returning to its nest beneath a boulder. "Once we find the point of travel, it will then take us here," he pointed to a dew-covered raven flying over a wide lake.  "Which should take us to the secret door."

"Should," echoed Bilbo. Water droplets flew like ink splotches from the raven's wings. "And you're leaving for all of this tomorrow."

"Yes. If you - " Thorin made an aborted motion with his hand, before clearing his throat. "Come with me."

What?

"What?" said Bilbo stupidly.

"Come with us," repeated Thorin. "Balin and I have spoken with Gandalf, and with the witch - ah - with your headmaster. You have finished your examinations. This is your final year before graduation -"

"Thorin - "

"I know well that you have said that hobbits do not enjoy travel, and that you look forward to participating in Hogwarts' Yule celebrations," Thorin continued. "There is also the possibility of danger, and surely you wish to return to your Shire. There are many reasons why you would not wish to accompany us. However I could not leave without - without speaking on behalf of myself and my company.

"When first I came to Hogwarts, I thought little of hobbits, for I did not believe they existed outside of faery stories. Then I saw your kind here. Still, I considered you small and weak, with little knowledge of the real world.

"Yet I have now come to learn that, while you indeed are small, and certainly sheltered, and concerned with the most trivial of things - "

"Goodness I hope there's something good at the end of that list," said Bilbo faintly. Thorin snorted.

"You have been a blessed friend to us all, and brave, and indispensable to our cause. I had hoped to stay in these halls longer, for I have come to greatly value your company and counsel. Will you come?"

Bilbo needed to sit. He was suddenly glad for the open door, and the circulation it provided - the air was growing all together too thick for his lungs to breathe. Or was that just that his throat had tightened, with fear or nerves he did not know. "Thorin, you must understand," he gripped the edge of the table unsteadily. "I don't even wish for  _you_  to go to the mountain! It will be dangerous, and I can't leave Hogwarts. I'm only a hobbit. Perhaps if I were a Gryffindor like my mother, but... I'm not made for grand adventures, and besides it's - it's  _tomorrow_! Maybe if you had given me more notice, but I..."  He looked up, eyes wide.

"Then," said Thorin gently, "why do you not think on it? I will not stay to influence you." Slowly, and with great care, as if Bilbo were a skittish creature he did not want to startle, Thorin re-folded the map and tucked it away. Patting Bilbo's shoulder, he let his hand linger there for a moment. "You have done many things for me and my own during these quick months, and much of it under duress. You are a loyal friend. I would not have you choose to come out of obligation." There was a soft brush over the hair that curled by his nape, there and gone again so quickly that Bilbo thought he might have imagined it. Then Thorin was leaving.

"We depart at the sixth bell tomorrow, with or without your company, though of course I would prefer the former. Goodbye, my dear friend."

Bilbo heard the door close behind him, and the eagle call out, "Good riddance to you!" but he could only see the table in front of him. Light from the fireplace played over its surface, empty, and on it turned slowly the reflection of stars.

__________

Bilbo went to bed that night determined that he would not see his dear friends again. He then lay awake for many hours afterwards, reminding himself of all the reasons why.

He was no adventurer. The hat had placed him in Ravenclaw, not Gryffindor - he was sensible. Respectable. A proper hobbit.

The empty quiet of the dormitory felt very loud indeed.

Besides, Bilbo rolled over and fluffed his pillow, he still had to write up his Service report. He’d fail otherwise and have to repeat the entire year. He couldn’t do that. “Maybe if I had had _time_ , I could have thrown together a passable report,” thought Bilbo glumly, “but _no_ , the dunderhead just had to wait until the _last minute_ to ask me.”

When Bilbo finally did fall asleep, it was to the memory of Thorin’s face, resigned and tired as he listed off all the reasons why he believed Bilbo would say no, as if he had never believed Bilbo would say yes in the first place; and of how Thorin had left so easily, to spare Bilbo the awkwardness of a polite refusal.

__________________

A loud thump like the closing of a door roused Bilbo from his sleep.

“Hello?” No reply came, and so he rolled to his feet, too disheartened to even grumble, and pulled on his casual clothes. Usually the house elves were less obtrusive when they came and left, but Bilbo had been woken by them before, and his stomach felt cold and empty – if he were up, he may as well see what the house elves had brought him.

The fire, when he reached the Common Room, was freshly stoked, and on the eating table sat a large lump that in the pale dark of morning, Bilbo could not make out. On closer look, he saw it was a bag – a traveler’s bag, just like the kind his mother had used to carry on her walkabouts. He examined it, and frowned. It was exactly alike.

Bewildered, Bilbo traced the familiar leather detail on the pockets that he’d admired since he was a fauntling. He found the hole in the strap, where Belladona Baggins had narrowly escaped from the claws of a kappa, crossing the Brandywine. This _was_ his mother’s bag! Something foreign caught beneath his fingers.

“ _Lumos_ ,” he whispered, blinking in the sudden light.

It was a letter, addressed to him in loopy handwriting.

 _My dearest Bilbo_

_I told you once that it was my sincerest regret not offering my condolences on your mother’s passing. I should hate to add another regret to that list, that I should watch her influence die in you as well._

_The road goes ever on, my friend, but only when your feet are brave enough to find it._

_Sincerely,_

_Gandalf_

Bilbo pulled another page from behind that one and, after a moment, let out a choked laugh.

_As overseer of the Pilgrimage and Service curriculum at Hogwarts School of Magical Learning, I hereby acknowledge the Pilgrimage of One Bilbo Baggins to assist the quest of Thorin Oakenshield as worthy of One (1) Credit, to be awarded upon the completion of his journey._

And below that:

 _I daresay you will receive a far better grade for this than you would have for whatever paper you meant to write on potions._

“Well,” Bilbo blinked, vision blurry. “ _Well_. If it's for a _grade_.”

The sun dial read ten minutes to six. Bilbo folded the note back onto the table, shouldered his pack, and ran.

 __________________

The morning bells began to sound just as Bilbo cleared the front gates of Hogwarts. By the second gong, he had ran past the path to Beorn’s hut, and by the fourth he could see a line of dwarves, hand-in-hand at the bottom of the hill.

The fifth gong he could not hear, as it was drowned out by a rising shout which soon became a clamor of joy and urgency that carried high and spurred his feet faster. He heard his name, heard “RUN BILBO RUN!” and he stretched out his hand and spurred his feet further, jumped the last few feet, and _reached_. The sixth gong struck, and the last thing Bilbo saw before leaving Hogwarts behind was Thorin’s smile: wide, surprised, and laughing.  


	16. The Mountains Make the Mist

The world continued to spin for a moment after they landed; and Bilbo's vision spun with it. He hardly had the chance to settle and notice the crunch of frosty grass beneath his feet, before he found himself swept up in a wave of clamoring dwarves.

"You came! You came! I knew you would! But I was so sure Uncle had bungled everything!"

" _Shame_ on you for running so late. What took you so long?"

"Dinnae get a chance to say goodbye, nearly broke m'heart!"

"You made it!"

Bilbo could hardly breathe beneath the crushing hugs and hollering of his friends; but still he laughed and blindly reached out to pat heads and backs.

"Enough." Thorin's voice cut through the din, and Bilbo, dangling off the ground in a bear-hug from Bifur, wiggled hopelessly. "Bifur," said Thorin exasperatedly, "put the hobbit down."

Bifur did so, and Bilbo fussed with his sleeves and hem, putting all back to rights. "Well," he said. "I'm quite happy to see all of you, of course. I hope you don't mind me tagging along," he added, to a chorus of denials.

"It is good to have you with us, Bilbo," said Thorin before turning to speak with Balin.

"Hôfukunêl,"said Bifur, striking his own palms together twice before pointing for Bilbo to look at how the corner of Thorin's mouth was creased in a private smile.

"He made it," Nori was saying to Dwalin. "Pay up."

Dwalin flicked over a coin - though he did not look upset about it. "Never thought a body with feet that big could run so fast," he told Bilbo with a slight grin.

"Let us hope we can all move with equal speed," put in Oin. "The potion won't last much longer."

"How long do we have?" asked Fili, who was looking very long-suffering as Bifur insisted on helping him adjust the straps on his bag.

"Yes, did we  _need_  to leave so quickly?" Nori looked side-eyed at Kili's wistful tone, and Bilbo remembered that Professor Ori was not with them.

"We ought to hurry," Oin said again. "Could be we have a month - could be we have a week. The sooner the better. We were dragging our feet enough as it was."

"Then we should get moving," ordered Thorin. "We're still ten miles from the base of Zirakzigil. If we leave now, we'll arrive just after midday. Come." He turned to look towards the horizon, where the jagged edges of a mountain range rose not too far ahead of them, and a strange focus came over him as he strode forward - as if he did not care whether or not they followed, only that he was going. The rest of them scrambled to match his pace.

"Here Bilbo," said Bofur as they trotted along, "I've a spare pair." He held out a pair of dwarven boots. "Frost is no place for bare feet, and we're like to get snow, if m' nose is right."

" _Shoes_?" sputtered Bilbo, and only his affectionate regard for Bofur held back the extent of his offense. He settled for a prim sniff. "I don't need  _shoes_  thank you. I am a  _hobbit_."

Bofur cast Bilbo's feet a doubtful glance, but accepted Bilbo's assertion with his usual easiness.

After that, Bilbo was determined not to complain, though this was all too easy, as the countryside was truly beautiful. True to Bofur's word, a fine December frost had covered the flat plains, though here and there a scattering of grass broke through like brown veins from the earth. Outcroppings of hemlock and holly stood as stark bursts of evergreen against the frost, and the sky above stretched high and blue. The scenery would have been gorgeous on its own, but to Bilbo - who had spent almost seven straight years at Hogwarts - it was all quite astounding. Even the air smelt more crisp without the dusty dampness of books and parchment filling it. Bilbo couldn't help but feel invigorated - an adventure! he was on and adventure! - with every breath. 

The dwarves obviously felt the same. Dwalin and Gloin in particular seemed relieved to be on the road again, the latter going so far as to spin his axes high in a fancy trick. Not to be outdone, Dwalin threw both his axes up, spun around, and caught them again, all without breaking his stride. 

Soon a competition grew, seeing who between Dwalin and Gloin could spin their weapons the highest. The game ended almost as soon as Fili joined, for he began by plucking two swords off his back and throwing them high in the air - before reaching into his sleeves for another knife before they had landed and adding that one to the mix. On and on he went, spinning first three, then four, then five and six and seven, and then some, all without breaking his rhythm - not even when he reached into his boot for yet another small dagger.

"Go on then," Dwalin said to Nori as Kili applauded loudly and the rest of them made admiring noises, announcing Fili the victor. "I know you can best that." Nori only smiled.

"Wouldn't you just  _love_ to know where I keep my knives?"

"Where are we?" asked Bilbo, hurrying up to walk with Balin and Thorin. His high spirits - he was doing it, really  _doing it_! - sank only a bit when Thorin did not answer him; but Balin was quick to pick up the conversation. 

"We are not fifteen miles east of the Bruinen," he said, pointing behind them. "Gandalf's connections came from Rivendell, and agreed to create a point of travel close to Zirakzigil. Though," he said archly, "why they could not have placed us closer to the mountain itself, I am sure it would be too rude to ask."

Bilbo, remembering the strange animosity that sometimes existed between edhils and dwarves, kept his opinion to himself. "At least they helped at all," he ventured. 

"True I suppose. One cannot ask for silver, when one is given gold." This last Balin directed to Thorin, though again he gave no notice. Balin seemed disheartened, but this did not last. At the rear of their party, Bofur had begun to whistle a tune. Apparently it was rather well known, for soon all the dwarves save Thorin and Bifur were singing along.

_A lad from o'er the western town_

_sing a dee-la-dee-la-dim_

_A lad from o'er the western town_

_walked one evenin' by the rim_

 

_He looked and saw a jewel so bright_

_sing a dee-la-dee-la-dim_

_He looked and saw a jewel so bright_

_he built himself a pillar high_

_to reach and get the jewel down_

_and take it home with him_

The song went on to tell the different ways that the boy - who was either a man or an edhil, Bilbo couldn't quite tell - tried to chase the moon down from the sky.

_And so he put on armor gold_

_sing a dee-la-dee-la-dim_

_And so he put on armor gold_

_to chase it 'round the rim_

 

_He followed it all night and day_

_sing a dee-la-dee-la-dim_

_He followed it all night and day_

_through fog and sky he found the way_

_to chase it all around the world_

_and bring it home with him_

It was a silly song, but they all seemed to enjoy it well enough, and Bilbo appreciated the diversion. It was only when his stomach rumbled loudly that he realized they had walked a considerable distance. The ground had begun to slope upwards, grass trailing to leave behind more rocky ground as they reached the base of the mountain.

"Oh my." Bilbo craned his neck looking up and up. "We're not going to climb all the way up that, are we?" The boulders gleamed silver-white in the sunlight, all of them at least five times Bilbo's height. For the first time, he found himself second-guessing his decision to come along.

"If we were going Father Durin's way, we'd walk the entire range." Dori joined him, looking up with Bilbo doubtfully. "Awful tedious business. Luckily, King Thrain left points of travel for us to take."

"Lucky." Looking round at the blank whiteness of the mountain, Bilbo's doubt grew. "And...how are we to find it, exactly?"

"We search." After hours of not speaking, Thorin's voice was alarmingly low. Balin noticed as well, and shared a frown with Bilbo. Thorin did not notice. "Find it," he said.

"We have walked for hours." Balin put down his pack. "Let us break for lunch first." 

Thorin turned, the high afternoon light casting a shadow across his face so that he looked very fierce indeed when he bit out: " _Find it._ "

The others had begun to follow Balin's lead, but at Thorin's order they paused halfway through setting down their bags. Fili and Kili's eyes were wide as Balin drew himself up to his full height - though his head still barely reached Thorin's shoulders.

"We won't get far if we collapse in the snow." Bilbo's stomach chose this point to rumble again, loudly. "And we have to feed our hobbit."

"Thank you, I am not a household pet," protested Bilbo.

Thorin consented with obvious reluctance. As the group settled down around Bombur, whose bag seemed to hold a never-ending supply of food, Thorin walked closer to the mountain. He then pulled out the map and glared down at it as if he could intimidate it into showing where the Portkey was hidden.

"Bring it here, Thorin," Bilbo called, watching the runes on Dwalin's fingers glow an instant before the logs which they'd gathered caught flame. An impressive campfire quickly grew with enough warmth to keep out the cold. In fact, the fire grew so strong that Bilbo found sitting too close to it uncomfortable, and so he retreated a further distance than his friends, whose thick skin could clearly withstand higher temperatures than Bilbo's. Once settled, he promptly transfigured one of the nearby stones into a chair for him to sit on. Remembering his manners, he transfigured another stone to make a seat next to him, and he waved at Thorin to come over. "We can puzzle over the map together."

"No," was all Thorin said lowly, and he showed interest in neither food nor rest for the rest of the afternoon.

"Don't mind him laddie," said Balin, who had come to take the seat instead. He spoke quietly, so that the others could not overhear. "Thorin's mind has been distracted lately."

"Yes, I've noticed," said Bilbo. "But, not so much as this. Has it been going on for a while, then? The..." He waved his hand and scowled exaggeratedly. “Bit of a surprise for me.”

"Yes, well." With a quick glance out of the corner of his eye, Balin confirmed that Thorin had not moved from his seat a distance away, looming over the map. “That’s one of the reasons I encouraged him to bring you along.”

“ _You_ did? Er – I mean,” he back-pedaled. “It seemed like something _Gandalf_ would want me to do. He seems to think that hobbits need to see more of the world than they prefer. But, it was you?”

“Oh yes. Though I had a hard enough time of it. It was almost the whole ordeal with the map all over again. You remember _that_ uncomfortable conversation, I imagine.”

Bilbo did. “The one where I walked away covered in turnover?”

“Cobbler, I believe it was. And yes. I imagine Thorin came away looking less than noble. But you see, even when all logic meant that a hobbit could touch the map, Thorin didn’t want to bring in any of the students – claimed it was too dangerous to ask someone outside of the company to handle a cursed map. Then I mentioned you for the job, and he was even less keen on the idea. Apparently the two of you had met earlier?” Bilbo nodded. “Thorin said it was a poor way to return a favor, to ask for another.

“But as I told him it would, it all worked out for the best. You are a hobbit of remarkable fortitude.”

“Ah!” Bilbo fiddled with his sleeves, pleased for a moment, before he remembered. “But what has that got to do with – ” He waved a hand again to Thorin, and Balin sighed.

“I worry for him, Bilbo,” he confided. “Thorin has always been a quiet lad – more solemn than most, and prone to depressive thoughts without company for distraction. Yet these past few months…” With a paranoia Bilbo had never witnessed in his usually confident professor, Balin looked around again and lit his pipe, gesturing for Bilbo to do the same. When he spoke, it was with his pipe between his teeth, lips hardly moving. “Oftentimes he is not himself. He spent much of the past month secreting himself away, and more than once I have – ”

Balin was beginning to frighten him. Too keenly, Bilbo felt the wide openness of the mountain range, and his comparable smallness next it. “What?”

“You have to understand, Bilbo. No one else has known Thorin longer than I, not even Dwalin. I know how Thorin thinks, how he speaks, how he moves. There have been times that I have come upon him during his private reflections, and the voice that he speaks with is not his own.”

Looking forward, Balin seemed to hold his breath to wait for Bilbo’s reply. Bilbo wondered how severe of an offense it would be, a dwarf saying such a thing about a prince. “What do you mean?”

“Only that the Horcrux of Thrain is dormant, but Thorin has never been without it for half a year. I worry for his mind, close for so long to it. I have not had a student of your like in decades, Bilbo. You know your histories. Remember the diary of Tom Riddle.”

Coldness that had nothing to do with the chill of the wind crept down his spine. “ _Possession_? No.” What a horrible thought! And yet, it was as if Professor Balin had given Bilbo the answer to a niggling riddle. He remembered thinking it odd, and all too willingly crediting the sometimes unfamiliar sound of Thorin’s voice to gruffness or discomfort – and though he was by no means a miserly hobbit, he could still clearly recall the flash of covetous anger on Thorin’s face after the Quidditch match. “You think it’s affecting him.”

“Half a soul – even half a soul from one so noble as King Thrain Dragonslayer – is unstable. That is why I wanted you along, Bilbo. I have seen you calm his mind. These tempers don’t occur so often on the days he spends in your company. Whether this is due to your friendship, or perhaps to some unknown hobbit magic, I do not know.”

Bilbo had nothing to say to that. “But, if it really is affecting him, then someone else ought to hold it! _I’ll_ hold it!” He meant it too, though the idea of even looking into that cold, empty beauty filled him with trepidation.

Balin exhaled a cloud of smoke. “We have tried. Believe we have tried. But he will hear nothing of it. Thorin is the closest blood relation to King Thrain. He is determined to bear it alone.”

“But that’s foolish! _Beyond_ foolish!”

“It is his duty. He claims,” Balin added hastily when Bilbo looked at him incredulously. “Bilbo, as much as I worry for Thorin’s well-being, I cannot deny that his claim on the Arkenstone is solid and true. Perhaps Fili or Kili as next in the line could bear it, but Thorin will never agree to it. All we can do is get to the chamber, find a goblin craft imbued with dragon fire, and finish the quest.”

“Oh, is that all?” They were looking up a very high mountain indeed! Stomach too unsettled for smoke, Bilbo tapped his pipe against his chair.

Balin looked rueful. “And we had best hurry to it. We’re like to get snow soon, if I know those clouds as I think I do.”

Unfortunately, Balin was completely correct. The company finished lunch, but they had only been searching the base of the mountain for barely over an hour when the sky had opened up into what began as a light sprinkle, but which quickly grew to an outpouring of snow.

Bilbo had thought quickly enough to cast a warming charm on the company before the storm had grown truly fierce; but warming charms were only so effective, when you were shoving your arms elbow-deep in the snow. Never mind the futility of searching for anything, when all the world beyond two feet was blurred by thick, cold snow.

“Thorin,” he could hear Dwalin say from some feet beside him. The snow had turned his beard just as powder-white as his brother’s. “We need to get to shelter.”

Bilbo didn’t hear Thorin respond. Perhaps he hadn’t said anything at all. What little Bilbo could see of him remained a still shadow looking up at the mountain in the downpour.

Dwalin continued on. “This is bound to get worse. We’ll lose the sun in a few hours. We’ll search again in the morning. _LADS_ ,” he bellowed. “We’re waiting out the storm. Gloin, get a fire going. Bofur , Bombur, Bilbo – can you build us up something from the stone?”

A bright shock of red burst up to Bilbo’s right, and he saw Gloin kneeling beside it. Gritting his teeth, Bilbo forced his hands deep below the snow again and waiting to feel the tingling of Earth Magic in his palms, though how was to feel anything beyond the pins and needles from the cold, he had no idea. Bofur and Bombur came and mimicked him, adding a high warbling whistle that lurched the ice beneath Bilbo’s palms. Together, the three of them pulled up enough earth, heavy beneath the snow, to fashion a decent lean-to.

Beneath it they all huddled around the fire, shivering and swearing until Bilbo cast another warming charm around their backs. Nose running, cheeks sore from the wind, Bilbo cuddled down deeply into his cloak, determined to never move again unless food was involved, adventure or no.

“Thorin!” called Balin. “I’m setting up the wards. You’ll want to be in when I do, there’s a lad.”

Bombur had reached into his bag again to pull up a hearty flank of some animal, still hot.

“How have you done this?” asked Bilbo as he bit down, the meat pleasingly tender and savory. “This is brilliant!”

Bombur smiled shyly, but it was Kili who answered. “It was Ori’s idea – said that he could make a line between the kitchens and Bombur’s bag. It’s the same magic that refills the plates at your Great Hall. It was really clever of Ori, really.” Kili sighed wistfully. "It's too bad he isn't with us." 

“Hm,” said Nori, unimpressed. “Well, maybe if someone hadn’t distracted him so much this term, he could’ve finished up enough work to come with us.”

Kili looked crestfallen. Fili wrapped a comforting arm around his shoulders, and casually threw the bone of his meal onto the fire, which sent a small shower of sparks to catch on Nori’s trousers.

“Ey!” he hissed, but with a quick flick of his wrist, a mist of water from the air dampened the flames. “Watch it!”

“That was impressive as well.” Bilbo hurried to change the subject. “I didn’t know dwarves worked water magic.”

Nori shrugged. “Not so impressive. You should see what I can do with lakes.”

Bilbo wished he could! “Is that typical, with dwarven magic?”

“Not really. But I had to learn, lugging around with this one.” He pointed to Dwalin. “It took him ages to master those runes. Set everything on fire, all the time. I had to learn out of self-defense. There’s a lass in Laketown that still won’t let him into her pub.” The others laughed heartily, but Dwalin only twitched his fingers, and again Nori’s trousers caught fire, and again he doused the flames with a sharp glare.

“Ah,” said Dwalin regretfully. “Still don’t have the hang of it, seems.”

“Well there!” said Bofur after they had finished laughing and eating their fill. “Shall we call it an early night, lads?” Not even the snow had dampened Bofur’s cheer, though his whiskers at least  drooped with melting frost. “Up again at first light?”

“If we can even fall asleep,” grumped Dori. “What’s the use of all your magic if it can’t make a decent sleep roll?”

Bifur grunted and made a sign with his fingers against his face  – and the rocks beneath Dori bloomed into plush cushions. Dori had the grace to look chastened, and he thanked Bifur heartily as the rest of them took to transfiguring their own sleep spaces. It was still early, Bilbo would guess no later than six, but the hike and futile search in the snow had left him bone-tired. He wasted no time in transfiguring the rocks beneath him into goose-feather pillows, snuggling down as the company followed suit.

Perhaps this adventuring business wasn’t so bad. He couldn’t imagine how he’d like it, if he hadn’t a bed or hearty meals, but as it stood, they seemed manageable uncomfortable, and the company made up for it. Warm, with a full belly, and with the background noise of the company settling in around him, Bilbo might have fallen asleep in an agreeable mood; but just before he dropped off, he made the mistake of looking over at Thorin, whose knees were up in sharp, defensive lines. His hands clutched at the lump of the Arkenstone against his chest, and his eyes flickered as he stared into the red light of the fire. Bilbo watched, but even with all the noise around them, Thorin did not move in the slightest.

It took Bilbo quite a long time to fall asleep after that.


	17. Leave No Trail

Bilbo slept uneasily. The snaps and screeches of night creatures, Gloin’s choking rumble of snores, and the conversation he'd had with Balin – all ran through his mind and gave him very disturbing dreams.

The fifth time Bilbo jerked awake with fright, it could not have been an hour past midnight. Heavy clouds covered the sky, so that the only light came from the dying embers of the campfire.

Bilbo lay quietly, trying to calm his heart from a dream about quarreling trolls, when a shadow moved at the edge of the camp. He did a quick headcount and came up one short. For a moment he hesitated, but then he kicked off his pillows to stand and reach for his wand.

" _Lumos Minima,_ " he whispered, casting a dim grey light over the dark, when he had drawn close. The figure ahead of him did not move. "Thorin?"   
  
"Why are you not asleep?"

Bilbo's shoulders sagged in relief. Thorin sounded tired, but he sounded like himself. The only lowness in his voice came from whispering.

"Why aren't you?" Bilbo returned. “Asleep, that is.”

Thorin shook his head. "I cannot sleep. There is much to think on."

"'Much to think on.' Right. And of course, the middle of the night is the perfect place to do your thinking. Can you even see in all this dark?" Thorin looked pointedly at Bilbo's wand. " _Could_  you, then?"

"Of course." 

That seemed to be the end of the conversation, but now that he was up, Bilbo had no desire to return to his nest of pillows - so he drew his pipe from his pocket and lit it with a touch of his wand.

"Pipe?" he offered. Thorin shook his head. "Eh well. One of the things I don't miss about Hogwarts: they had such peculiar restrictions about smoking."

Puffing a sweet breath of smoke, he plopped himself down on a fallen log with a sigh, comfortable enough to wait in silence until he grew sleepy again. 

"It has only been a day," said Thorin - though he sounded uncertain as he said it, and again and again he looked around the camp as if taking its measure. The tradition of the dwarves to weave their hair up for Yule had the strange effect of making Thorin seem younger - while at the same time, exhaustion added years to his face. The lines around his eyes looked particularly deep with the night's shadows.

Gingerly, as if his muscles were sore, he sat next to Bilbo. "Have you already missed much of Hogwarts, then?"

"Oh no." Bilbo waved his hand, pulling his cloak tighter around himself. He thought of casting another warming charm, but the wards that Balin had put up had left the campground comfortable enough, though they could not keep out the frigid wind when it blew. 

"Well," he amended after a moment. "I don't quite miss it yet. The feasts were a plus, and I will miss the library, of course, but..." he cleared his throat. "I've been thinking about returning to teach, actually, once all this is said and done."

This was not true at all - Bilbo had given the thought no time whatsoever. It had simply popped into his head, just now, and he was astounded at how perfectly logical it seemed. "Yes, I could teach."  

"You would be a good teacher," agreed Thorin absentmindedly. "Any institution would benefit from your addition. And Kili has expressed a wish to study for a few more years at Hogwarts. He would be lucky, and happy, to have you."

"In that case, never mind." Bilbo grinned to show he was teasing. "I don't need the grey hairs that boy would cause."

Thorin made a noncommittal noise of amusement, and Bilbo relaxed back into the ensuing silence. Above them, the clouds had thinned, and a starlight brighter even than that seen from the Astronomy Tower lit the night sky.

Bilbo murmured, " _Nox,_ " and looked up to admire the view.

He had to admit: Balin's theory seemed less believable, now that some time had passed and Thorin looked and sounded so much like himself. Perhaps Thorin's odd behavior was all the result of stress. Who wouldn't be stressed in such circumstances? 

For a comfortable moment, Bilbo allowed himself to believe this, but then Thorin said haltingly, "Tell me, Bilbo. How is that we...what are your thoughts, of the day?"  
  
"My thoughts?" Bilbo shrugged. "Walking and searching, is all, though it got terribly cold before we could do much. But Nori says the weather will be better tomorrow - and Bofur sang a decent song, so it wasn't too bad." Thorin looked bewildered. "Don't you remember? About the man chasing the moon? Bofur sang it just behind you."   
  
"I do not." He frowned mightily at a large fir, but Bilbo could tell he was not really seeing it. "I do not remember anything beyond looking to the mountain yesterday morning."

"Oh," said Bilbo.

" _Oh dear_ ," he thought. Did that mean that Thorin had been possessed the entire day?

Bilbo thought back to Thorin's behavior during the day. Yes, he had been withdrawn, and at times uncharacteristically aggressive; but for the most part, Bilbo had not even realized anything was wrong until Thorin had argued with Balin.

This worried Bilbo even more. It would have been better, he thought, if Thorin had acted entirely unlike himself throughout the day. Yet he had not. He had responded to his name, spoken to the others, and commanded the beginning of the journey - perhaps a bit more tempestuously than usual, but otherwise with nothing outside of the ordinary. 

Yet, he had also been possessed the entire time. Did that mean that the spirit of Thrain had been, what,  _pretending_  to be Thorin? Why would it do that?

And for how long? Bilbo shuddered at the thought of a stranger watching the company through Thorin's eyes.

There was no way for Bilbo to address this. For all his talk of honesty between friends, he could not for the life of him think of a way to bring up the Arkenstone's effect on Thorin.

Whichever way you sliced it, Thorin would never give it up. On the one hand, if he believed Bilbo when he said that the Arkenstone might be possessing him - well, Thorin was far too noble to allow for any of the others to carry it. He would cling to it all the more.

On the other hand, if Thorin didn't believe Bilbo, then Bilbo would have created a rift of suspicion and hurt between the two of them - perhaps Thorin would even send Bilbo back to Hogwarts!

And besides, there was a third person at play here, wasn't there? If Bilbo and Balin were right, and Thrain had begun possessing Thorin, then Bilbo needed to watch what he said around Thorin.

What would Thrain do, if he knew that Bilbo suspected him? Bilbo knew little of King Thrain the First, only that he had died almost at the same time as he had killed the dragon Smaug. The dwarves called him a hero.

Bilbo was less inclined to trust a stranger. Especially a stranger in the habit of possessing his friend!

Balin was right. The only thing they could do was to hurry the quest along, before the spirit of Thrain - good intentioned or otherwise - spent more time than was needed with Thorin.

Perhaps, thought Bilbo frantically, aware that Thorin was awaiting his answer - perhaps if Balin had been right about this, then he may be right about Bilbo's effect on Thorin as well. Although the very thought seemed self-important and ridiculous, if talking with Bilbo helped Thorin resist the pull of Thrain's soul, then Bilbo would talk his tongue sore!

He would have to tread carefully though. He did not know how aware of the outside world a Horcrux soul could be. It would not do to tip off Thrain to Bilbo's suspicions.

"Does this happen very much," he asked lightly, "you forgetting entire days like that? I told you, you need to sleep more."

Thorin rolled his eyes. "Dwarrows are hardier than hobbits."

"Hmm so you say, but then you don't see hobbits exhausting themselves to the point of memory loss." Thorin frowned. "I'm  _joking_  Thorin. It's probably nothing. You're tired and certainly distressed."

"I am not di _stressed._ "

"The mind needs to relax, is all, and you cannot tell me that you do not have a lot on your mind at present."

Thorin looked over his shoulder at Bilbo, his stare very unimpressed. He tipped his head, as if to say, " _and?"_

"We hobbits have remedies for such things, you know."

"Remedies for thinking?" Thorin sounded amused.

Bilbo gasped, affecting surprise. "Why Thorin, you're hilarious! Why have you never let on before? No, remedies for  _stress_." He scooted down off the log so that he sat on the ground in front of it, and after pulling at his sleeve managed to get Thorin to - magnanimously - follow. "Now," ordered Bilbo. "Close your eyes."

"What?"

"Is your hearing going, along with your memory, old gaffer?"

"Gaffer?" repeated Thorin incredulously. " _Old_?"

"Close your eyes, I said."

If there were ever a snobbish way to close your eyes, Thorin - with his nose in the air and brows raised imperiously - had found it. "Brat," chided Bilbo, and was rewarded for his cheek when Thorin actually snorted with laughter.

"You do realize," he cracked open one eye, "that I am a prince."

" _Royal_ brat, then," Bilbo grinned. "Close your eyes. Thank you. Now, lay back your head against the log.  _Relax_ , if you can."

Leaning back against the log, Thorin settled himself; and Bilbo followed suit, though he did take a moment to indulge in the view while Thorin could not see him doing so. He allowed himself to admire the stern cut of Thorin's jaw and his proud aristocratic nose - harsh lines contrasted by the surprisingly enchanting and delicate fan of his eyelashes, and the skin of his throat, exposed and soft in the starlight. His head tilted back as it was, Bilbo could even see the steady movement of Thorin's pulse at his neck.

"Here," he whispered, and took Thorin's hand between his own. Perhaps he had been too sudden in breaking the silence, for Thorin inhaled sharply and his pulse beat faster as if startled. Bilbo hurriedly turned Thorin's hand over, and Thorin's eyes snapped open when Bilbo curled Thorin's fingers around his pipe.

"Here." said Bilbo again. "It will relax you. Just one puff, if you'd like. And  _close your eyes_ , if you please."

Surprisingly, Thorin was almost docile as he obeyed and drew a deep breath of the smoke. "Hold it," directed Bilbo, pleased. "Feel it fill your lungs." He waited for a moment. "Now, breathe out - out your nose, if you can, but it's hard for some people not used to the smoke." Thorin did so, almost too quickly. "Slowly," Bilbo admonished, and he watched in fascination as a light blush crept round Thorin's ears.

Bilbo grinned, feeling more than a bit triumphant at having unsettled Thorin, and took the pipe away. That would have been the end of it, had Thorin not sighed and said:

"Hmmm." The corner of his mouth kicked up in amusement. "And what is next, in the way of hobbit relaxation?"

Bilbo laughed a bit breathlessly. "If a bit of pipeweed didn't do the trick, then the custom is to make pleasant conversation - interspersed with more pipeweed, and tea, if possible."

"All agreeable things," nodded Thorin. "Must they all be done in blindness, or might I open my eyes now, Master Baggins?" 

"Oh very well. If you must." 

Even in the relative brightness of the starlight, Thorin's eyes were dark. He tipped his head and looked at Bilbo conspiratorially. "And what topic will you choose, for our pleasant conversation?" 

Bilbo paused. Was this his chance? He wanted desperately to ask about the Horcrux - but he was loath to ruin Thorin's easy manner. Perhaps he could find a mid-ground. 

"You dwarves are always so secretive," he complained. "I know very little about your history, which is very unfair, considering my Pilgrimage project is now all  _about_ you. Will you tell me about Thrain the first? Surely you must know more about your ancestor than the stories in books."

Thank the stars, Thorin did not grow defensive. "A rich request." His solemnity was betrayed by a lingering smile. "Dwarven secrets are costly. Perhaps a trade. A tale for a tale?"

"Certainly! Only, you must begin. And you must remain relaxed." Bilbo passed the pipe back to Thorin. He accepted it easily, taking two puffs, and then he spoke.

"Thrain, named Dragonslayer, is my great-grandfather's great-great-grandfather. He was a good king, though there are some traditionalists who critique his reign."

"Do they? Why?"

Thorin frowned. Seeing this, Bilbo reached over and urged the hand holding the pipe up again pointedly. Rolling his eyes, Thorin shook his head - but calmed.

"They call him greedy, for seeking the treasure in Durin's halls, when already Erebor was so prosperous. Others still call him insane, for daring to do so when Smaug still lived."

"What do you think?"

Thorin did not answer immediately. "To challenge a dragon takes great bravery, or great desperation."

"Or both."

"Or both - and perhaps no small bit of arrogance. Brave, desperate, or foolish, perhaps Thrain was all of these. Yet I know he, like all dwarrows, hated that filth lived in the sacred halls of Durin. And I believe he worried for the future of Erebor. No. While I cannot deny that dragon sickness haunts my line, I do not believe Thrain suffered beneath it."

"Dragon sickness?" echoed Bilbo. "What's that?"

"A disease of the mind," answered Thorin succinctly. "A perversion of dwarrows' natural love of gold, which turns appreciation to obsession and brings with it madness. My own grandfather's mother suffered it, and her father before her. Yet Thrain was a just and fair ruler. I cannot fault him for falling ill, if that is indeed the case, and he deserves to be laid to rest."

"Of course he does," agreed Bilbo, shivering lightly in the cold night air. He rubbed his arms distractedly, trying to imagine such an all-encompassing desire for something, that it drove you mad. He remembered again the look that had been in Thorin’s eyes when Bilbo had suggested that Thorin pay him his gold. He shivered again. "I...I am sorry that such a thing happened to your family. It sounds terrible. I've never heard of such a thing before."

Thorin accepted Bilbo’s condolences easily. "I am not surprised. Hobbits do not seem to be creatures held by treasures of the earth. Or if they are, it is more by things growing than by things glowing. Regardless, it is your turn." He passed the pipe back to Bilbo, who smiled.

"What could you possibly want to know? Hobbit secrets aren't so valuable. I daresay we don't really even  _have_ any. Though," he waved the stem of his pipe mock-seriously at Thorin, "if you're going to go fishing for my great-uncle's cranberry scone recipe, then you will be sadly disappointed."

"As priceless as such a thing surely must be," said Thorin far too gravely to be serious, "I would prefer if you would tell me of your mother and father."

The corners of Bilbo's smile softened, and he bought himself time to think by drawing from his pipe. The smoke, when he exhaled, was sweet and cloying and reminded him of nights spent with his mother in the living room. He could practically hear Bungo Baggins begging his wife to "smoke outside, dearest, please - the smell will stain the curtains!"

"They were very much in love," began Bilbo, "and quite well-suited for each other, despite what their relations had to say. My father was one of the top students of his year, which always rankled the Ravenclaws. He was a Hufflepuff," Bilbo explained when Thorin looked about to ask. "But Dad always liked to say, 'Hard work beats natural talent, if it goes on long enough,' and he was certainly stubborn. Best historian the Shire ever had. Very respectable."

"And your mother?"

"Very un-respectable," grinned Bilbo. "She liked to do things when told she oughtn't, just to prove that she could. She was one of Gryffindor's best Chasers in her year! And of course she was quite friendly, and always getting into trouble - within reason, she always liked to say."

"They sound very like you," said Thorin politely, which both lightened and saddened Bilbo. "How did they meet?"

"Oh, well,  _that_ ' _s_ the scandalous bit of it. Bungo, my father, was Head Boy from Hufflepuff - and of course my mother Belladonna was Head Girl from Gryffindor. They never had any classes together, and had never really been introduced; but my father loved her, he said, from the very first time he saw her in their first year. She had helped him get on the train, he said, though mother never remembered that at all."

Bilbo chuckled. "Dad was quiet and private. I don't think he had ever actually spoken to her once, before they were Head Boy and Girl together. Then they were introduced, and the first thing he says is, 'I've always thought very highly of you. Would you go walking with me?' Just like that!"

"Is walking so very scandalous?" asked Thorin.

"Well, perhaps not so much now, but what he meant was that he wanted them to be  _an item_. And mother said, 'Have you now? That's very impressive, and very brave, seeing as how you don't know me at all!'"

"She rejected him?"

"Oh no," Bilbo smirked. "Father was quite the looker, back in his day.” He waggled his eyebrows, and Thorin obliged him with a huff of laughter. “My mother thought he was quite handsome. She told him: 'But I'll give you the chance to get to know me,' and she let him carry her bag to class for her for a month, before she decided that she liked him very much indeed. They graduated, and were married by the time they got back to the Shire. Dad set up as a historian, and Mum apprenticed with a physician in Bree - mostly because she liked the journey there and back again. Then I came along."

"And now here you are," said Thorin almost wonderingly.

"Here I am." Bilbo breathed deeply to fortify himself. "Dad passed almost fifteen ago - he was researching some rather old books that had come down from Isengard. One of the pages had a curse on it." Bilbo noticed that his hands were shaking, and he grasped them firmly on his knees. "A terrible curse, but we think it must have taken him quickly. Mum ended up finding him. I don't think I'd ever seen her so...she burned the whole trunk of books. Every last one of them. Wasn't even sorry, after she did it. Dad would have been devastated."

Thorin's hand covered Bilbo's own, and his face, when Bilbo looked, had paled slightly. "Your father died from handling a cursed object," he said faintly. "And yet still you...?"

"Still I what?" But Thorin only shook his head, and squeezed Bilbo's hands.

"I am gladdened that you are with us, Bilbo Baggins," he said solemnly, and Bilbo's stomach fluttered. "Your mother gave you her bravery, I see. You will be singing for her in two night's time, will you not? How did she pass?"

"She got sick - what? Singing?" 

"For Yule," explained Thorin. "We sing for our mothers. You will see."

"Oh." Bilbo blinked slowly, feeling the weight of his eyelids and fighting the yawn welling in his chest. "Okay then." He shuddered under a sudden blast of wind, and removed his hands from Thorin’s to pull his cloak tighter around himself.

"How are your feet not frozen?" Thorin's sudden question threw Bilbo off for a moment.

"My  _feet_?" he asked, incredulously. Of all the things!

"Or is this another hobbit secret?"

Bilbo flushed, no longer tired at all. "It might be! You dwarves and your - your - it is very forward, to ask after a hobbit's feet like that!"

Instead of contrite, Thorin looked amused. "Is it?" he asked. Then he leaned forward, smirking, and Bilbo tried his best not to shiver at the lowness of Thorin's voice when he asked, "And how are your feet tonight, Master Baggins?"

The gall! Bilbo's heart beat like a bird's wing, and he thought of pulling his cloak over his feet, but for some reason he felt compelled to do no such thing and instead only wiggled his toes, feeling strangely coy. 

"I apologize if I've offended you," said Thorin, still smirking. "Only they are so large, one wonders how not to notice them."

This was too much. "Thorin!" scolded Bilbo. "You really cannot say such things! Thank you very much, of course, and I'm flattered, yes, but you don't realize how very forward that kind of talk is!" Against his will, he remembered the morning of the Quidditch match, where Thorin's fingers had lingered on the point of Bilbo's ear; and his mind unhelpfully imagined the sensation again, this time coupled with Thorin's voice murmuring on how large Bilbo's feet were.

Heat spread down the back of his neck, and he strategically loosened the wrap of his cloak.

Thorin was not so affected. "I'd imagine they were made for softer things than the mountainside, at least."

Bilbo felt that his face would catch fire, and his temper flared right along with it. "I'll have you know, hobbits are more than capable of a little rough!"

" _Are_ they?" Now Thorin truly was laughing at him, and Bilbo was so overcome that he reached out and flicked the end of Thorin's large nose, hard.

The effect was instant. The smug intensity dropped from Thorin's face like a brick, leaving behind a blank shock that was quickly replaced with such outrage - Bilbo almost hurt himself, trying to keep his laughter silent enough for the camp.

"I am a  _prince_ ," growled Thorin thunderously. "You do not  _flick_ crowned princes _in the face_."

"You do when they're being prats," Bilbo said magnanimously, his own nose high in the air as he stood. "In fact, you have grown too ridiculous for company, Thorin Oakenshield. I recommend you get yourself to bed. I shall see you in the morning."

"Hmmm," said Thorin, unimpressed, though he rose to his feet as well to follow Bilbo back to the camp. They walked softly to their separate bedrolls, careful not to disturb their sleeping companions. Bilbo had just settled onto his cushions when he heard Thorin whisper, " _Toccarus,_ " and a light warm breeze gusted over the tops of Bilbo's feet and tickled down his soles - and he squeaked so loudly that Gloin jerked awake with a shout, which roused Nori, Dwalin, and Bifur in turn. It took Bilbo many minutes to assure the camp that he had only been having unpleasant dreams, all while glaring at Thorin's suspiciously still-sleeping back. 

By the time the others had settled down again, mumbling about the excitability of hobbits, Bilbo had half a mind to throw a rock at Thorin's head - only Thorin had rolled over, and his sleep now was the genuine deep slumber of the truly exhausted. Bilbo found his ire melting at Thorin's gentle snores and the relaxed lines of Thorin's brow, and he went to sleep feeling very proud of himself indeed.

\---------------

Perhaps Balin had been right after all about hobbit magic – for the next morning showed Thorin completely himself, and in such good spirits that Bilbo would have suspected a Cheering Charm had he not known any better. Thorin greeted Balin upon waking, and then complimented Bombur on breakfast. This of course made Bombur sputter and blush; and also prompted Bifur to smile at Thorin and offer him Bifur’s share of breakfast – which Thorin politely refused. (Bifur then offered the serving to Fili, who accepted much more readily.)

After everyone had eaten, Thorin even brought out the map and invited not just Balin, but Bilbo and the others as well, to confer around it.

“This raven marks the hiding place of a point of travel.” He pointed to a black bird at the base of a mountain, which fluttered and flew away from Thorin’s finger to disappear into the base of the mountain. “It will be difficult to find now that the mountain is covered in snow.”

“Ey now, that’s why you brought us along, innit?” Bofur clapped Bombur and Bifur on the back. “You won’t find a group better at moving earth than the Brother’s ‘Ur,” he explained to Bilbo. “And it stands to reason you’d need architects and miners along on a journey to a mountain.”

“All of you chose to come with me on this quest,” agreed Thorin, “and each of you has something different to offer. Study the map carefully for clues, and begin your search.”

They did so, each looking and spreading out afterwards. Balin and Dwalin stuck to the base of the mountain, convinced Thrain would not have bothered with anything higher, while Gloin and Oin asserted just the opposite. Nori even went so far as to ask the map where the Portkey was, but the raven only startled and flew into the rock again. The dwarves split into twos and began touching everything they saw in the hopes that one of the pair would disappear and reveal the location of the Portkey. Only Bilbo and Thorin sat still and continued to study the map.

This continued until Fili and Bifur cried out that they’d found an outcropping identical to the one the on the map, and everyone packed up camp quickly. “I have this,” said Thorin, taking up Bilbo’s pack and vanishing his cushions. “You take the map.” Together they all followed Bifur a half mile away to a gathering of large boulders surrounded by oak trees.

“ _Point me_ ,” whispered Kili, but his wand only spun aimlessly in his hand. He shrugged and poked at the rocks with his wand. “It’d have to be something permanent,” he mused aloud. “Not a tiny rock that’d roll away. Probably one of the bigger boulders, or maybe even one of the trees.”

“Thrain wouldn’t hide anything on a _tree_ , Kili.” Fili pulled a face. “He wasn’t an edhil.”

“Not _on_ a tree, no.” Bilbo thought, and stared at the map. Again, the raven shook its wings and flew to its hiding spot. “But perhaps _in_ something else.”

“Thorin,” he called out. “Look here. You said each raven marks the spot where the Portkey is hidden – but look at the wings – they’re covered in dirt.”

“Well it _is_ flying to its nest,” pointed out Kili.

“Not to its nest,” Bilbo insisted. “ _Under_ it. It’s going underground.”

“But birds can’t go underground!”

“It’s a magical map, Kili,” said Balin, growing excited, “one must suspend their disbelief.” 

Bilbo waved his hands impatiently. “No but really, it makes sense! Thrain hid the Portkey – he wouldn’t want just anyone picking it up! Even transfiguring it, someone might touch it accidentally. So it _can’t_ be on the surface. It must be underground! And the raven is flying right to it!”

“Bofur, Bombur – start digging. See if you can feel anything at the base of the outcropping.” Thorin’s eyes were bright, and he clapped Bilbo on the shoulder.

“Wait lads,” said Balin. “Let Bilbo do it.” At Bofur’s incredulous face, Balin explained: “Remember how Thrain cursed the map? Who can say that he did not do the same with the point of travel? Best to play it safe and have the hobbit pull it up.”

Thorin’s fingers tightened around Bilbo’s shoulder. “No,” he said. “Hobbits are not immune to curses.”

“Thorin,” admonished Balin. “It’s likely the curse only applies to magical beings that Thrain knew about. Master Baggins is our best candidate.”

“And an excellent student,” put in Bombur, winking when Bilbo preened under the praise. “It’ll be just like feeling for stones in the earth, Bilbo. Feel for something that doesn’t belong, and then call it out.”

“Alright,” said Bilbo, though Thorin’s hand prevented him from moving forward. “It’ll be fine. The map ended up being harmless to hobbits anyway.” He shuffled around the base of the outcropping, looking again and again at the map for more clues. Finally, he found a spot that seemed right, and he sank to his knees in the snow and pushed his hands in with a wince. “Cold,” he said for the others’ benefit.

Closing his eyes, Bilbo stretched his awareness into the earth. Beneath the frozen surface, he could feel the soft dirt reaching downwards, with tendrils of seedlings stirring at Bilbo’s touch. _Back to sleep_ , he urged them. _Now is not the time for being awake. Stay warm in the earth_. He looked deeper and wider, ignoring the tingling in his fingers as time went on.

Thorin growled. “He is going to get frostbite if he tries for any longer,” and just then Bilbo’s awareness crashed into something solid and squishy that did _not_ belong in the natural earth.

“Got it!” he shouted, and a collective cheer rang out.

“Now hold onto it, Bilbo,” said Bofur, coming to kneel next to him. “What’s it feel  like? Metal? Stone? Wood?”

Bilbo frowned, the phantom touch of rough wool scraping his palms. “Like fabric,” he decided.

“Well that’s odd alright – not the typical choice. But I suppose that’s a good sign!” Bofur made a sign with his fingers. “Do this with your hands, and think of waking up in the morning, how it feels to get up out of bed. That’s how the bundle’s gonna feel, so you need to coax it out.”

Feeling a bit silly, Bilbo obeyed. Instantly, he felt the Portkey shift deep beneath the earth.

“Call it up,” prompted Bofur. “You took this class. You have to sing it up.”

“Come along, don’t be shy!” called out Gloin. “We don’t have all day, laddie!”

“Erm, but I don’t know the words!”

“You don’t _know_ the words, you _feel_ ‘em!”

“Come on, Bilbo, you can do it!”

“Is your voice terrible? It must be. Don’t worry! We won’t judge you. Can’t be worse than Oin’s.”

Bilbo dithered and fussed, and the more he did the more he felt his awareness of the Portkey slip further away under the earth. A thump came to his left, and Bilbo startled and looked to see Bifur sitting in the snow, humming under his breath.

Slowly the chatter of the company faded, as first Bombur, then Oin, Gloin, and Balin joined in. Fili and Kili followed quickly, and even Dwalin and Nori took up the melody. It was no song that Bilbo recognized, and he suspected the dwarves were simply making the tune up on the spot – _feeling_ it, like Gloin had said. Tentatively, he began to hum along, and felt to his surprise the Portkey begin to wriggle upwards.

Encouraged, Bilbo grinned and hummed more loudly.

"Repeat after me.” Thorin’s voice whisper-sang in Bilbo’s ear. “ _Arzîn mabarâl tarsi._ ”

“ _Arzîn mabarâl_ ,” repeated Bilbo more tremulously, amazed that he was allowed to say the words. “ _T-tarsi. Arzîn mabarâl tarsi_.”

They worked. Bilbo could feel the Portkey pulling, almost climbing up Bilbo’s own magic. He sang louder, embarrassment forgotten, and a few of the dwarves broke off to cheer as the snow lurched beneath Bilbo’s hands once, twice, and then on the third pull he gave up and pushed away at the snow with his hands to reveal an innocuous lump of what might have been blue fabric at one point, but which was now stained almost black.

“Careful,” urged Thorin, his hand a shock of heat around Bilbo’s stiff fingers. Thorin reached out his free hand to grasp Bofur’s jacket. Bofur took the hint and grabbed Bifur’s pack. Soon all the dwarves had latched to each other in a chain, waiting for Bilbo to open the bundle. His hands were numb from the cold, prickling painfully now that they were out of the snow, and it took him longer than he’d have liked to pick the blanket away to reveal a tiny gem, like a teardrop of fire. It flickered and danced and gave off a real heat, but Bilbo only hesitated a moment.

“Everybody ready?” he called out, met with a rousing “Aye!” Perhaps he should have felt nervous, but Thorin’s hand around his steadied him, and he only wished he had movement enough in his fingers to squeeze back reassuringly. The best he could do was shrug and, in one quick movement, he snatched up the gem.

At once, his stomach lurched, and between one moment and the next, he went from looking at the stark whiteness of the mountainside, to a blue so wide and deep, Bilbo thought for a moment he was looking at the sky.

“A lake!” cried Kili. “It worked! It worked!” Bilbo coughed at the sudden thinness of the air. They were closer to the top of the mountain, large peaks rising around them to form a valley within the rock. The valley stretched wide, wider than all of Bag-End, filled with dazzlingly crystal blue water that shimmered in the morning sun. “You did it Bilbo!”

“Not a problem,” he called, wrapping the gem back into the dirty blanket with a firm pat. He looked up at Thorin, who stared at the lake in amazement, and grinned. “Next?” 


	18. The Reaching Hands of the Lake

Damp mud chilled Bilbo's toes as the company gathered at the shore of the lake. He could hardly believe his luck. Already, they were here! Only one more Portkey to go, and they would be at the secret entrance of the mountain.

A shiver of fear dimmed his excitement. Who knew what lived in the mountain, after all those years? Orcs, certainly - though since the treasure chamber had been sealed in the collapse of Smaug, the company would hopefully not run into anything more terrifying than a dead dragon. A huge, just  _massive_ dead dragon, but a dead dragon all the same.

Bilbo shivered again and forcefully turned his mind back to the situation at hand. One step at a time! He'd only just reached the lake; they'd worry about the dragon when they got to it.

But what a lake it was! Truly only a hairsbreadth larger than a pond, it was clearly a reservoir of rain and melted snow which had collected where two steep peeks met. The late-morning sun rippled red and gold across the surface - the color warm despite how cold Bilbo knew the water must be.

Despite the dead trees and jagged rocks, Bilbo thought it one of the loveliest things he had seen so far on his adventure. Of course, this opinion may have been influenced by his triumph.

"Well done Bilbo," said Thorin lowly, clapping his hand on Bilbo's shoulder and squeezing.

"Yes, fifty points to Ravenclaw," Balin winked.

"A hundred points!" said Kili. "Two hundred!"

"One million and a pie!"

"Enough of that!" said Oin. He had pulled his bag from his shoulder, and was looking inside anxiously. "Good job Master Baggins, yes, but we need to keep moving. The potion won't hold forever." Oin held out his hand for Bilbo to pass the map. He traced the flight of the second-to-last raven, which flew over a wide lake three-quarters of the way up the mountain. "The last point of travel, and then we're here." His finger tapped on the final raven, which roosted in a blooming tree next to the mountainside. "With any luck, we'll be at the door by tomorrow evening. Just enough time."

"We'll need less luck, and more skill," said Nori as he reached over Oin's shoulder for the map, grinning like a shark. "Let me find the next one, eh?" It did not take long. With a critical eye, Nori studied the raven, taking a page out of Bilbo's book and looking at the details of the bird itself.

"Last one had dirt on its wings," he said. He angled the map so that Thorin and Bilbo could see. The current raven flew over the lake with what looked to be dew clinging to its feathers. "This ones wings're wet. It's in the lake then." 

Balin made a noise of disgust. " _In_ the lake!" 

"Kili," said Thorin, taking back the map and tucking it within the folds of his tunic. "Check to see if the lake is occupied. We may well gain help, if it is."

"Be diplomatic about it," Fili warned. "Remember what happened the last time you tried to talk to mer-people."

" _You_  try getting the difference between - " Kili made two shrill chirping noises, "- right. It wasn't my fault!" He frowned mightily at the lake. "Uncle," he hedged, "I doubt anybody lives in a lake this small, or so cold." 

"We will try, all the same."

"It's  _snowing_ , Uncle." 

"A little cold never hurt any dwarf worth his beard." Dwalin clapped Kili's shoulder roughly. "Get at it, laddie."

Miserable, Kili drew off his outer jacket and gloves and dipped his fingers in the water. "It's  _frigid_ ," he complained once more, before screwing up his face and plunging his head in up to his shoulders. Bubbles rose to the surface, and Bilbo could hear a faint screaming sound from beneath the water.

A moment later, Kili raised his head with a gasp. "It's bloody  _buggeringly_ cold, good stones!" he shouted and plunged his head back in, screaming more loudly. Fili sniggered.

" _F-f-fuck_ ," shouted Kili when he came back up the second time, water dribbling down his scant beard.

"Here lad." Dwalin held out a palmful of blue fire, which Kili snatched between his bare hands.

"Th-th-thanks." He held the flame close enough to his face that Bilbo worried for his eyebrows. "Th-there's n-nobod-dy down there, Unc-c-cle," he said. "O-or if there are, they d-don't want to s-say hello."

"You speak mermish?" asked Bilbo, amazed.

"C-c-course." Kili did not look happy about this.

"It's why Uncle brought him along," explained Fili. "Kili knows most languages. We needed him to get into the dungeons at Hogwarts. The snakemouth," he added fondly.

"Sh-shut it. Dry my hair, won't you?"

Fili obliged and drew out his wand. " _Anteoculatia_!"

At once, Kili's hair unraveled from its dropping braids and merged and stiffened into two solid points against his head, solidifying until they were unmistakably antlers.

The company laughed riotously, Bofur most of all, but Fili looked chagrined.

"Oh bollocks, Ki, sorry!"

"No don't worry about it," said Kili blissfully. "They're nice and warm, thanks."

Thorin rolled his eyes. "Fix them once he dries," he told Bifur, who was looking at Fili with exasperated admiration. "We'll have to go in ourselves after it."  

The lake, which may not have seemed particularly large to a witch or wizard, stretched threateningly wide to the company. Gloin looked at Bilbo dubiously. "Don't suppose hobbits can swim, can they? Big flipper-feet like that?"

To Bilbo's amusement, both Fili and Kili - and Dori as well - gasped as if scandalized. Apparently his friends had remembered a few things about hobbit culture. Bilbo had a hard time schooling his frown into place. "I beg your pardon!" he rounded on Gloin, who did not look even the slightest bit abashed.

"Gloin," said Thorin sternly.

"Well, can you?" asked Gloin again.

"Certainly not! No more than dwarves can grow wings and fly!"

"Who needs wings? Better to grow gills," said Dori, pulling at the sleeves of his robes anxiously. He glared at Bifur. "Can't you do something like that?" Bifur returned with a hand gesture that Bilbo suspected was none too polite, given Dori's resulting outrage. "Well you're a master, aren't you? What good is it if you can't be useful!" 

"He's plenty useful!" Fili, level-headed Fili, shocked the company by practically snarling at Dori. "What've  _you_ done so far?"

Nori rounded on Fili in defense of Dori, and Gloin - always eager for a fight - drew his axes and menaced Dwalin unnecessarily .

Honestly,  _dwarves!_ Bilbo feared a brawl would break out, when Balin said sternly, "It would take more than magic to change a dwarrow's rock-like nature, Master Dori." The company's tempers deflated, though Fili kept his crest up - behind him, Bifur was visibly surprised. "Talented he may be, but Master Bifur can't work miracles."

"Well, what are we to do then?" wondered Bilbo aloud in an attempt to disperse the still-tense atmosphere. He twirled his wand between cold fingers, muttered, " _Accio Portkey_ ," and pointed to the water. Nothing happened. 

"Worth a try," he shrugged.

They shuffled on the lakeshore for a moment, making thoughtful noises and - in Kili's case - miserable sniffles. Then, Thorin said, "Nori."

Nori shrugged and nodded. "Eh. Alright."

"Are you mad?" Dwalin protested. "That water is no place for a dwarf!" 

"What happened to 'a little cold never hurt a dwarf worth his beard,' Mister Dwalin?"

Ignoring Kili, Dwalin rounded on Thorin. "We don't even know  _where_  the damn thing is under there!"

"Well, what else are we gonna do?" argued Nori. He had gone over to Dori, who was tightening the braids around his head with deft twists and tugs. "Drink the lake dry? Wait til spring? Besides, Bilbo wanted to see what I could do with lakes."

Whatever Nori was about to do, it would clearly take a while. Oin and Gloin began setting up a fire, and the 'Ur brothers went along pulling up another shelter some distance away from the water.

Fili, looking defiantly at Dori, was sticking stubbornly close to Bifur, loudly admiring his work in transfiguring the nearby rocks to serviceable chairs and tables. The rest sat uncomfortably on the cold rocks as Nori wiggled out of his overclothes and boots.

"Don't  _drop_ them," chided Dori. "They'll get wet. You won't want damp clothes, coming out of there."

"I'll just have Dwalin dry them for me." Nori rolled his eyes.

"If you're thick enough to go in there," said Dwalin, "you'll get no favors from me," but he picked up Nori's things and slung them over a rock regardless.

"He's going in?" whispered Bilbo, aghast. Close by, Kili nodded excitedly, antlers bobbing.

"I've never seen him at it before," he said, sitting down close by Nori to watch. "Most dwarrows can do some water magic, to work in our forges and in the mines, but nothing as big as Nori can do."

"The trick, Master Baggins," said Nori as he peeled off his socks, "is that the water doesn't want a dwarf in it, and a dwarf doesn't want to be in the water. So what you gotta do is makethe water hungry, make it want you, and it'll take you up easy."

"Make it  _hungry_?" Bilbo didn't like the sound of that. "What do you mean?"

Nori didn't answer. His bare feet had touched the snow, and he hissed with displeasure and hurried forward to the water. "Oh, how do you  _stand_ it?" he asked Bilbo, who wriggled his toes deeper into the snow and shrugged, feeling a flush rise up his neck when the others glanced reproachfully at his feet.

"Enough of that," said Thorin. "Mind yourself," he told Nori. "Do not touch the point of travel, but bring it back for Bilbo to handle." 

Nori had reached the water's edge, and he sat down with his legs crossed, cringing when the water licked at his toes. " _Contrarotuagua_ ," he whispered, and a ripple went out over the lake.

"You know the drill," Nori said over his shoulder to Dwalin. "Dori's got one of my rings. Pull me back when I call." 

Dwalin rolled his eyes and huffed. "Aye. And watch yourself." 

Fingers woven together in a complex pattern, Nori took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and began to chant. The words were shivery - long and wide and jumping - strange in a way that Bilbo eventually realized sounded like a running brook.

They carried over the lake and echoed off the rocks. Nori's voice grew deeper, fainter, and an uneasy restless feeling overcame Bilbo. He wanted to rush forward, snatch Nori up, pull him away - but at the same time, he wanted to  _be_ snatched up. It was in his blood, pushing forward with every jump of Nori's voice.

"Easy," warned Dwalin when Bilbo shifted forward. A thrumming had begun in the center of the lake, a gentle push and pull - back and forth and back again. Ripples grew into waves that welled higher with each pull, and through it all Nori continued chanting.

The waves came closer to the shore. At their edges, Bilbo could see water droplets flying, then growing and shaping until they looked like thousands of tiny reaching hands.  _Hungry,_ remembered Bilbo, watching with morbid fascination as they clawed at the air, reached for the sand, and scrabbled against the shore to pull rocks into the lake - and they stretched for Nori.

One watery hand reached far enough to grab the hem of Bilbo's robes, and he lurched forward with a yelp before a strong arm jerked him back - Dwalin.

"Move back!" ordered Thorin, and all scrambled backwards, save for Nori, who waited as if in a trance as the water crept closer and closer. The hands met his feet first, and clasped on tightly to his ankles, legs, arms, tunic, and neck.

Nori's eyes snapped open, and he drew out his wand in a quick movement. A shiver of water curled around his head - "A bubble head charm," realized Bilbo faintly - and Nori managed one more wicked grin over his shoulder before, in one wretched lurch, the hands lifted him up into the air and plunged him beneath the surface of the lake.

Instantly, the water grew calm, not a ripple to be seen.

Bilbo let out a cry. "That!" he held on tightly to Dwalin's arm, panting. "That was - are you mad?! That was  _dark magic_!"

"Magic is magic," said Dwalin, releasing Bilbo. "It's only dark if you use it that way."

He gaped at Dwalin, who shrugged. It reminded him of how nonchalant Thorin had been about showing Bilbo the Horcrux. Did all dwarves think this about magic?

Bilbo could not believe it. Some things, no matter their intentions, were evil - and some things were always good - and the way those hands had reached for Nori had been decidedly sinister. "What's going to happen to him now?" he rubbed his hands together anxiously.

"Dwarrow magic stands apart from water." A warm, soft weight fell over Bilbo's shoulders. Thorin's cloak. "The lake will recognize that Nori is a dwarf. It will naturally bring him to any other source of dwarven magic that might be in the lake."

"And then it will let him go?" What then? Could Nori even swim? Bilbo looked out at the mirror-smooth water, and burrowed deeper into Thorin's cloak.

Thorin glanced at Dwalin, who along with Dori stood at the lake shore, glaring out over the water.

"Not precisely," he said. "He will let us know when to pull him back up." Thorin looked at Bilbo's hands critically, then grabbed them both between his own. "Your fingers are still cold from earlier," he said, rubbing his hands over Bilbo's brusquely and looking down so as not to meet Bilbo's eyes. "You are well?"

Now that he thought of it, his fingers did still feel a bit stiff and prickly from searching through the snow. Thorin's hands, in contrast, were deliciously hot. Bilbo wiggled his fingers happily. "Yes, thank you. More shocked than anything. I've never seen anything like that before!"

"Nori is skilled," Thorin assured. He released Bilbo's hands slowly, yet stayed close. Bilbo could feel the tips of his fingers tingling, and he put his hands in his robes to keep the heat. "We grew up together, in a fashion. He will be fine."

"In a fashion?"

"Well," conceded Thorin. "I trained from a young age with Dwalin, and he knew Nori quite well. Not a day went by that he didn't complain about some new trouble Nori had gotten into. He has always had strong magic. He will be fine," Thorin repeated, as if to himself, sternly.

"Not long now," called out Dori. He twisted at where his rings would normally decorate his fingers and frowned disapprovingly at the lake.

But he was wrong. An hour passed, then two, and as the sun rose so too did Bilbo's anxiety. The rest of the company grew restless and tired with waiting. Bifur had changed back Kili's hair, and Kili had taken to exploring the area with Fili and Bofur; and Oin and Gloin sat practicing fire charms nearby to see who could melt the most snow in one blast. Only Dori and Dwalin remained at the lake's edge as if under a spell themselves, unmoving as the surface of the water. Bilbo did not dare ask if Nori had enough air.

"What Fili said," Bilbo's breath showed in white puffs as he cast about for something to talk about, "What he said earlier. You brought Kili along to Hogwarts, because he speaks parseltongue." He looked up questioningly at Thorin, who nodded. 

"I knew we would need to destroy the Horcrux of Thrain to free his spirit. Hogwarts not only had the map to the mountain, but also the rumored basilisk fangs in the Chamber of Secrets." 

Some of the more puzzling behavior of the dwarves while at Hogwarts clicked into place. "You had Kili look in the dungeons!" 

"I did not send him there alone," protested Thorin gruffly. "He is my nephew. Of course I accompanied him." 

"And that morning, by the Quidditch pitch - when he almost ran us over on his broom...I remember thinking it was odd, him looking in all those office windows!"

Thorin frowned at the memory. "I spoke to him about that. It was inappropriate of him to try and frighten you."

Had Bilbo been listening, he would have pointed out that peeking into office windows was just as inappropriate - if not more so - but he was occupied. "I had wondered what Kili was doing! He was looking through the windows - looking for... for Professor Galadriel's office, for the sword of Gryffindor, wasn't he?" 

He looked up at Thorin, awash in his own cleverness, and found Thorin looking almost fondly at him. 

"Ten points to Ravenclaw," he said lowly, and Bilbo - despite the tense atmosphere - fought back a laugh and blushed.

"Oh look!" cried Kili. He had climbed up the nearby boulders some twenty feet - how  _had_ he managed that, thought Bilbo,  _dwarves_  - and pointed to the south. "You can see Lorien from here!" 

Forgetting the cold and the lake, Bilbo's heart leapt excitedly. "Really?"  _Lorien?_ He had always wanted to go! Suddenly, climbing the boulders did not seem so daunting. Bilbo scurried over and craned his neck to look up towards Kili. 

Thorin followed him bemusedly. "Can you reach?" he asked over Bilbo's shoulder. 

The nearest handhold hung far above his head. "No," said Bilbo. "I can't - eeEY!" Two large warm hands clasped firmly around his waist and lifted Bilbo effortlessly. As if he weighed nothing more than a tuft of dandelion fluff, Thorin held Bilbo up within easy reach of a handhold, and Bilbo's heart fluttered with shock.

Small as he was, Bilbo still often forgot that the dwarves were not only bigger but also significantly stronger than he. Ignoring the thrill in his gut from being so easily maneuvered, Bilbo twisted in Thorin's hands and glared. "I may not be able to reach," he fumbled for his wand, and the next moment found him and Thorin standing at the top of the boulders beside Kili, "but I can still  _apparate_ ," finished Bilbo waspishly. 

To his credit, Thorin merely blinked and exhaled harshly at the sudden relocation. Carefully, he lowered Bilbo back to the ground. Bilbo wiggled his toes, waiting until he'd gotten his feet back beneath him, before turning in Thorin's arms. He called upon his most stern scowl. "Just because you  _can_ pick me up - "

"- does not mean I am allowed," finished Thorin, who did look marginally contrite. "I only meant to assist you. I apologize." 

"Well then," Bilbo gave in to his smile. "That's alright." 

He did not return the smile, but Thorin did look fond, in his own way, when he said, "I am glad that you chose to follow us."

"You'd still be stuck at the bottom of the mountain, if I hadn't," pointed out Bilbo, and he felt a triumphant thrill when his cheekiness wrenched a huff of laughter from Thorin.

"If the two of you are finished  _embracing_ ," Bofur's teasing voice caused Bilbo to wrench himself away,  the lingering heat on his waist reminding him that Thorin had never actually removed his hands. 

Oh but Bilbo could  _not_ afford to forget himself, simply because he had something of an...affectionate attraction to Thorin. He was a hobbit grown, not some springtime tween, and after this adventure he would be a graduate of Hogwarts! Certainly he had the wherewithal to not lose his head over one kind, noble, and handsome dwarf.

( _Don't forget strong,_ whispered a treacherous Tookish part of his mind,  _He picked you up like it was nothing. Imagine how easily he could lift you against a wall!_ )

Bilbo did just that, and succumbed to a fit of coughing to regain his composure.

It was as if Bofur could read his mind, for he waggled his bushy eyebrows at Bilbo teasingly. "You came up for the view, yeah?" he finally asked, turning to wave his hand at the horizon. "Feast your eyes!" 

Not-so-very-far to the southeast, a brilliant shock of yellow shined against the surrounding snow and grey rock. Lothlorien. Bilbo thought it must be huge, a sprawling flash of growing beauty down by the base of the mountain. As he watched, a distant wind swayed the leaves of the mallorn trees, and they shimmered and moved like molten, living gold.

Beneath those trees grew Cirin Amroth, Bilbo remembered, and on that hill thrived one of the most renown learning institutions in the magical world. He inched as close to the edge of the cliff as he dared. The wind pushed back at him gently, rocking, and below the trees swayed and glinted merrily.

If Bilbo listened hard enough, he wondered if the sound of harps and chanted spells might carry over to the mountain. Unbidden, the lines of his favorite verse floated through his mind, and - moved by the beauty of the forest - he could not help but recite them aloud, quietly.

"The hart and bear and bird live there," he whispered, "beneath the glowing grace of elanor, sweet elanor, of gentle shining face."

"Rich in peace and blest is he who wanders there within," Thorin's deep voice thrummed beautifully around the last lines of the poem. "The only gold mine sway does hold grows fair in Lorien."

Surprised pleasure bloomed, and Bilbo looked with wide eyes at Thorin. "You...you've read the Dwimordene? An edhil book?"

"Clearly."

"It's such a rare book though! Available only on request!"

"Indeed."

"I had to wait two months before it was free to read!"

"I waited three."

"You -" Bilbo blinked rapidly at Thorin, who continued to survey over Lorien. "You  _like_ edhil poetry?"

With mock solemnity, Thorin said, "You must not tell Dwalin." Then he looked down at Bilbo, his blue eyes sparkling with mischief, as if sharing some delicious secret. If Bilbo had thought the golden leaves of Lorien were breathtaking, they truly had nothing on the bright blue of Thorin's eyes.

"That's lovely," whispered Bilbo. 

"Eh, not bad," interrupted Fili, coming to stand with them, "for edhils, I suppose." 

Moment lost, Bilbo whipped his head around to glare at Fili. "'Not bad?'" He couldn't believe it. "That's  _Lothlorien_! Professor Galadriel's home - it has one of the largest libraries in the world!" Fili shrugged.

Bilbo was scandalized. "There are edhil scholars who live there who know histories that have  _never been written down_!" 

"The flowers are pretty, I've heard," offered Kili. Bilbo gawped. 

"The waiting list to study in Lothlorien is decades long!" he began to rant again, but this time Thorin interrupted him. 

"Erebor has just as rich a history," he regarded the glittering Lorien now like Bilbo had seen Dwalin look at celery. "And we have managed to build our city  _indoors_." 

"Oh for crying out - "

"Thorin!" Dwalin's voice carried loud and urgent. 

In a flash, Thorin had grabbed the arms of Bofur, Fili, and Kili. "Take us back down," he ordered Bilbo, who hastily obeyed. So quickly he almost worried about splinching, Bilbo apparated again to the lakeside, the afterimage of the golden leaves still in his eyes. 

"What is it?" demanded Thorin, though uselessly, for the next moment Bilbo noticed that the lake had rippled out of its unnatural stillness, and a white glowing shape was growing beneath the water. It broke the surface and darted across to circle the gathered company - Bilbo caught a glimpse of a large bushy tail and sharp teeth - before landing on Dori's shoulder. It was a fox, a pale, shimmering fox: a Patronus, realized Bilbo just as the fox looked over to Dwalin and opened its mouth.

Out came Nori's voice, shivery and weak: "Well it's fucking cold down here. Get me up, yeah?"

"Not until he has the point of travel," growled Thorin. Bilbo and Balin exchanged worried looks. It was as if stone had fallen in place of Thorin's face; he stared at the water impassively. 

"Are you mad?" barked Dwalin, and even Dori could not hold in a cry of outrage. Dwalin shoved his way toward the lake, coming up short when Thorin grabbed his arm and jerked him back. 

"I said," said the dark, deep voice, "wait." 

"Dammit Thorin!" Incensed, Dwalin looked at Thorin's hand holding him fast as if he could not fathom what it was doing there. "He called to come up! Either he's got it, or he's out of air. Either way he's finished!" 

Thorin blinked, and the coldness washed away from his eyes. He released Dwalin's arm and stepped back, and though the others gave their attention to whatever spell Dwalin was casting, Bilbo watched as Thorin passed a hand over his face, looking confused for a brief moment. 

"Pull him out," he said soon thereafter, though Dwalin had not waited for the go-ahead. 

"Give me a ring," he said to Dori, who dug in his pockets for a plain metal band to place in Dwalin's palm. The runes on Dwalin's fingers lit up bright blue, and the ring melted to a puddle in Dwalin's hand, which he dribbled onto the shoreline, the metal just barely touching the water. 

Like a blanket tugged at one corner, the lake jolted and surged forward. It covered the melted metal and receded - the remnants of the ring gone, and a bedraggled, soaked Nori in its place. And next to him, a slime-covered black ball.

Dori and Dwalin grabbed and hauled Nori away from the water and towards the fire, the company following excitedly. Bilbo took the chance to sidle up next to Thorin, who had lost himself looking out at the lake. How frightening would it be, to lose yourself that way? For without a doubt, that had again been the voice of Thrain speaking earlier.

"Are you alright?" he whispered urgently.

"Fine." Despite his word, Thorin's chest rose in quick shallow breaths, as if he had run a great distance, and a crease furrowed his brow in a way that Bilbo thought looked almost panicked. Thorin's hand clutched at the Arkenstone beneath his robes.

Without thinking, Bilbo reached out and pulled that hand away. Instantly Thorin looked at him, eyes jumping down to his hand within Bilbo's. Bilbo could think of nothing else to do, but smile comfortingly and squeeze Thorin's hand. "You are alright," he said reassuringly.

Taking in a quick breath through his nose, Thorin said in a hoarse voice, "Bilbo - "

But Dori let out a mighty screech, "Get  _back_  I said!" and both Thorin and Bilbo hurried to where he had Nori close to the fire.

Nori shivered, skin almost blue, and even Bilbo could hear his teeth clacking together.

“Idiot,” Dwalin was saying as he lit a circle of blue flames around Nori. “Why didn’t you use a warming spell?”

“K-k-k-k” was all Nori said, and Dori – in a surprising show of strength – pushed Dwalin back to stand with the others.

“Don’t make him _talk_ right now!” he hissed. “Be useful and magic him some tea – or firewhiskey if we have it!”

Bombur dug in his bag and pulled out a flask, which Dori promptly snatched up and practically poured down Nori’s throat. “There now,” he said, rubbing at Nori’s shoulders and face. “You’ll be fine.”

“Dry his hair,” suggested Kili helpfully. “Only, don’t let Fili do it.”

“Think now’s the time to be funny, do you?” Dori glared, but allowed Gloin to approach and magic the water from Nori’s hair and clothes. The fires had restored some of the color to his face; and though he still trembled terribly, Nori soon recovered enough for Dori to let him go – but Dori was not finished yet.

“What are you doing?” he barked at Bilbo, who had remembered the point of travel and had left the circle to retrieve it. “You can’t be thinking about leaving _now_! Nori is in no state to travel!”

A soft sound, suspiciously close to, “b-bu-bugger off m-mother hen,” came from where Nori now sat, hands fast around one of Dwalin’s fires, but Dori ignored it. 

“No,” placated Thorin. “We cannot travel now. But Bilbo will collect the point of travel all the same. Put it somewhere safe.” He told Bilbo.

At a loss, Bilbo removed his cloak, wrapped it around the disgusting lump (how long _had_ it been under the water? How revolting!), and stowed it deep in his pack. “Now what?” he asked.

They turned to Thorin.

“Set camp for the night,” he ordered Gloin. To Bombur, “Get a meal ready. Nori – rest.”

“We don’t have time to waste!” protested Oin. The glare Dori turned on him was fiercer than fire, but Oin did not falter. “Who knows how long the potion will last!”

“It will last one more night, at least,” said Thorin in enough time to prevent Dori from menacing Oin. “And moonrise begins the mourning. Enjoy the repose while you can, all of you.” Despite the deep lines of exhaustion on his own face, Thorin’s voice was strong, and his eyes as he surveyed his company lit with a fierce purpose. “We will leave at tomorrow’s first light. We will not rest again until our journey is done.”


	19. The Last Light

Despite his name as dwarf-friend, there were still some things that apparently were not acceptable for Bilbo to witness. He didn't mind. The scandalized look on Gloin's face, when Bilbo had asked if he could help with preparations, had been hilarious enough to dispel any feeling of otherness Bilbo might have had.

"Our preparations are fairly simple," Balin told a still-laughing Bilbo. "We simply undo our knots - " here he gestured towards his complex braids (and Gloin shouted, "VERY PRIVATELY!") " - and light the fires until sundown."

"You're welcome to help me with  _my_  preparations, Bilbo!" winked Kili before Nori pushed him in the lake, much to the amusement of everyone present, though Dori did fret over Nori being so close to the water again.

Since then, there had been little laughter. As the day darkened, the dwarves grew quieter. They ate supper in a reverent silence, and Bilbo respectfully made himself scarce when Bofur turned to Bifur and said: "Right then, let's get those braids out!" He amused himself by walking to the bare trees by the edge of the camp, looking up at the stars and, inspired, by stringing a few branches with fairy lights from his wand. They glittered pretty against the white snow and iced leaves of the trees - almost prettier than Hogwarts' Yule decorations.

"And was it really only three days ago that I worried about Thorin not wanting to go to Yule!" he wondered to himself. "Now here I am outside a mountain with a  _dragon corpse_  inside! What is a dance to that?"

Truly, the thought did still sting, but it seemed a petty thing to cling to, considering all that Bilbo had learned since. He flicked one of the fairy lights with his wand, and it went chattering away up the tree.

This journey was far more important than a silly dance, Bilbo reasoned - and goodness knew that Thorin certainly had more on his plate to worry about than one small hobbit's feelings!

Still, Bilbo was a hobbit, and hobbits by nature fretted over small, comfortable things (mainly meal times and parties, of course). And if Bilbo sometimes still thought on Thorin's voice and hands, and on his lovely smiles and way with magic, well, who could think badly of him for it?

"Bilbo?"

It was Fili, his hair down from its knots for the first time in months; even his mustache fell untied. He looked very young for it. "We're ready to start the mourning, if you still wanted to join us." Looking up, he smiled at the fairy lights. "Pretty. Shall we go?"

"You're sure it's alright?" Frost-covered grass crunched beneath their feet as they walked back to camp. Bilbo wrung his hands. "I wouldn't want to intrude, if it's private."

"You were invited." Fili shrugged. "I mean, maybe don't go writing to the edhils, telling our secrets, but Uncle trusts you. We all do. You're a dwarf-friend."

Back at camp, the dwarves had lit five fires: three rather close together, a fourth nearby, and the fifth furthest away. Around that one sat Bifur, Bofur, and Bombur; Nori and Dori sat around their fire, with what looked like an ornate hand-mirror in between them; Oin and Gloin sat around theirs, which was next to Balin and Dwalin, who were themselves next to Kili and Thorin.

They had, all of them, taken out their braids, and the sheer length and volume of their hair - especially of Nori's and Bombur's - was astonishing. The logistics of washing alone... and how could they walk with all that hair?! How heavy must their heads be - why, even Nori's  _eyebrows_ were longer than Bilbo's feet were wide! No wonder they kept it braided up and out of the way most of the time. Seeing it down was nothing short of alarming.

It all felt immensely private, and Bilbo felt so much like an intruder that, when Fili pulled him over to join Thorin and Kili, he hesitated.

He did not linger long, for no sooner had he stuttered, "hmmm...ah...I don't think..." than did Nori reach up and pull Bilbo down by his robe sleeves. With a proprietary air, he arranged Bilbo to sit down between Nori and the mirror, which Bilbo saw had a reflection of Professor Ori! He gaped, and the reflection waved.

"We'll take the hobbit," said Nori, and Dori nodded approvingly. A noise of protest came from Thorin's circle, but Fili merely raised his eyebrows before joining his own family.

"His royal highness probably wanted you with them," said Nori to Bilbo, "but Durin's line has got enough singers for its daughters, so you can come with us."

"Singers?" Bilbo whispered. "What do you mean?"

Dori answered him, his long hair sparking silver-gold in the fire as he leaned forward. "It's from the Creation story. Life came from song - we come from dams, so we sing for them."

This seemed to be a sharp contrast to the Durin's celebrations, which had involved - to Bilbo's recollection - excessive drinking and shouting and groaning the next morning. He wanted to ask about the distinction, but Professor Ori had joined the conversation - voiced hushed and tinny through the mirror.

"'Singing' is perhaps not accurate." Bilbo tried not to stare too wide-eyed at the talking mirror. "It's more of a hum. For each mother, sister, or cousin of your line, hum the first few notes that come to mind for each person. It's supposed to be organic," he told Bilbo fondly. "So don't think too hard about it, if you can, Mister Baggins."

"When do you stop?" asked Bilbo.

"Whenever you remember somebody else," said Nori.

"But-"

"Sh!"

A deep resonance, like the thrum from the lowest string on a harp, silenced the whispers of the camp. It was Thorin, voice a quelling thunder, and at his cue the other dwarves followed, each adding their own voices – all low and somber.

The note held and grew until Bilbo thought his teeth might start rattling. Dwalin was the first to break off from that base into his own melody – a surprisingly cheerful tune that reminded Bilbo of his father singing en route to the Shire market. Bilbo wondered who had inspired this tune in Dwalin – his mother perhaps? Did he have a sister? – when next to him Nori began humming his own piece. It was short and simple, almost perfunctory, and gone soon beneath a different one altogether. More and more, the dwarves added layer upon layer of melodies, until the still mountain air practically vibrated with it.

Bilbo himself felt flummoxed, and hardly qualified to join in with such a thing. Even with each dwarf humming over each other, it never felt discordant. What if Bilbo ruined it?

They'd never know if he didn't join in, he reasoned. He could just observe - how peaceful Thorin looked with his eyes closed and soft hair black as the night around them; or listen to the often-quiet Bifur join with Bombur and Bofur in a rousing tune. It reminded him of the Shire, before he had left for Hogwarts, watching his older Took cousins dance and sing on the tables of the Prancing Pony. His father would huff disapprovingly, but his mother would be right up on the tables with them, kicking up her skirts and yodeling until stuffy old Bungo Baggins would smile.

Then he thought of his mother in her garden, singing to herself as Bilbo helped his father in the kitchen. What would she say, if she could see Bilbo now?

It did not happen quickly, for hobbitish concern for propriety was no easy thing to throw over; but no one could think of Belladonna Baggins without growing a little more daring in turn - and before the night was over, more than one mountain creature had heard the low rumble of dwarvish song, joined by the tiny voice of a hobbit.

* * *

  
By the time Bilbo had finished thinking of Adamanta Chubb, and humming something giddy and playful to fit the old hobbit, his throat felt as scraped clean as a seeded pumpkin. All the singing had left Bilbo disoriented and exhausted, as if they had somehow wrangled the entire night into a few short minutes. Bofur, Gloin, and Oin had finished around the same time as Bilbo; and he took his cue from them to stand and leave his circle when he was done, unnoticed by Dori, Nori, and Ori who all had their eyes closed as they continued to sing.

He felt strange, all hollow and shaken up inside, as if the vibrations from the dwarves' song had knocked something loose in his brain. Bilbo had never been a very devout hobbit. Certainly, he knew of Eru, and of all the tales that went with him; but hobbits were not like dwarves and edhils, who were so sure of where they came from. Bilbo had never, until this time, had a moment quite so reverent. It was disconcerting, and made him feel out of sorts, and so he seized his chance to escape away from camp, where the cold night air would hopefully clear his head.

This was not an easy thing to do, for there were many things for Bilbo to worry over. Still he took many deep breaths of the night air, and he wandered until the coldness of the earth had seeped into his ankles, and then he made to return. The singing had died down, and Bilbo could see a few of the dwarves moving out of the camp circle, talking quietly to each other and braiding up their hair. In the glow of the fires, he saw Dwalin and Nori walk towards the Lorien-facing side of the mountain, followed closely by Dori, who was holding Ori's mirror in his hand and whispering to it furiously. Thorin also left the circle in Bilbo's general direction, and Bilbo thought to intercept him when Kili and Fili cut him off.

“Uncle? Shall we put back in your braids?”

Though he could not see him clearly, Bilbo could hear the fondness in Thorin's voice - “Have finished your song then, Younglings?”

Bilbo, small as he was, had blended in with the large rocks about him; though rocks did not move, nor eavesdrop for that matter. Should he announce himself, or walk away?

“’Youngling?’” laughed Kili. “Maybe to you, old timer. Come, we will spare your old joints the strain and put in your braids, and our own, if you will give us back our beads for it!”

There was a jangling noise. What little light afforded by the stars, the camp, and Bilbo’s distant fairy lights glinted off the beads in Thorin’s palm. Bilbo smiled to himself and prepared to look away, as it wouldn’t be right for him to watch such a private thing as dwarves braiding their hair, when a dreaded voice – like Thorin’s, but not – said:

"No." The merry glinting disappeared beneath a tight, closed fist. "Shall I give them to you, only for you to lose them immediately after?"

"Uncle!" said Kili. "We are not children."

"No?" Thorin pocketed the beads. "You are young yet, and know nothing of the true workings of the world. Will you steal them from me?" he challenged. Kili again looked as if he might protest, but Fili laid a hand on his shoulder.

"Of course not." Fili looked steadfast at Thorin the same way Bilbo had seen Beorn stare down a Hippogriff: calm, nonthreatening, careful. "You know what is best,” he said. “We thank you for keeping them safe for us."

Without another word, Thorin turned and walked out into the darkness.

"Fili!" whispered Kili furiously. They drew closer to Bilbo, who thought about making himself very small and very unnoticeable among the boulders. Oh, but this was  _not_  a good conversation to have stumbled upon! Though he longed to escape, he felt sure that moving even one inch would give away his position. It was a miracle they had not noticed him already. 

 "Fili this is ridiculous! Those are father’s beads, and -"

"Hush Kili!" said Fili, looking sharply over his shoulder. With a frustrated growl, Kili obligingly lowered his voice, but his anger remained hot.

"Why should Uncle keep our beads? We are not children!" he repeated. "What have we done to earn such distrust?"

"It is very unlike him," agreed Fili, "or, unlike him how he usually is. Lately I'm not so sure. You remember how he has been, these past few months at Hogwarts. Hiding away, muttering riddles to himself. Sometimes it felt as if he did not recognize me at all, when we spoke. I know you have seen the same."

They stood for a moment in tense silence. Bilbo wished he could leave. This seemed a private thing indeed - yet he did not cover his ears, or try to think of other things. To his shame, Bilbo found himself listening even closer as Kili whispered, "Do you think...dragon sickness?"

"I do not know. It seems to be. You remember grandfather’s stories of his grandmother. What else could it be?"

"What could have triggered it though? Hogwarts had no hoards or curses. Uncle seemed happy most of the time! We should ask Balin."

"No Kili -"

"We are about to enter a _dragon's hoard_!" Bilbo could not see his face, but Kili sounded panicked. "If Uncle Thorin has dragon sickness, we cannot let him in there. It would only make things worse!"

"What would we do then, tie him to a tree? Rifle his pockets to find the Arkenstone? We don't even know what it looks like.”

“Ori does,” said Kili almost desperately. “I know it. We can ask him – or Oin! Balin’s sure to have seen it, too. He can help. We take the stone from him, and we destroy it! Uncle can stay outside.”

“If you think your magic is strong enough to stop Thorin, then you’ve got another thing coming.”

“Then we’ll ask Bilbo to talk to him!” Through great effort, Bilbo did not startle at his name.

“No.” Fili said. “If Uncle shows any signs of dragon sickness, we keep him away from the others.”

“Why?!”

“ _Dragon sickness_ , Kili. Think! Do you think grandfather would let Thorin rule if he heard rumors that he was sick? Erebor would never trust Thorin again.”

“Then you would have us do nothing!”

“I would have us do nothing foolish, which seems to be the difference between you and me!”

Heart in his feet, Bilbo held still and cursed himself for not revealing himself earlier. He wished he had never thought to listen. He had had enough. Scuffing his feet loudly on the ground, he kicked up some pebbles and made a truly un-hobbitish amount of noise.

"Evening Kili! Evening Fili!" he called out merrily. Even with as loud as he had thought he was being, Fili and Kili both startled and jumped apart quickly with wide eyes. Whatever excuses they may have made, Bilbo spared them by waving his hand. "Lovely night for a walk," he said, voice light and dismissive, and he left quickly away before either of them could reply.

That same reverent air which had driven Bilbo away from the camp now seemed a blessing. The dwarves had finished their singing and had moved their separate fires together, talking softly or simply sitting near each other. A few of them had nodded off, Bofur and Bombur leaning against each other comfortably.

Oin and Gloin were closest to Bilbo, their hair braided and full of so many beads that they rattled in a light breeze. They spoke to each other of the mountain, and of the beautiful things which would be in the treasury. Oin in particular wished to find a certain relic from an old dwarrow folk tale; and each time Gloin spoke, his estimations of the treasury's size increased exponentially.

Bilbo huddled alone, wishing to join them, but not trusting himself to not betray what he had overheard. Fili and Kili may be able to pretend at joviality, but Bilbo was not so skilled, and their worries had put him ill at ease.

Worst of all, Bilbo felt like a terrible friend. Had Thorin been so very bad at Hogwarts? He had seemed more distant after Durin's Day, certainly, but Bilbo hadn't given it much thought. Yet apparently Thorin had been acting strangely enough that  _Kili_ \- who, while not dim, was not the sharpest wand in the box - had noticed, and now Thorin was bad enough to worry both Kili and Fili.

Though they did not seem to realize that the Arkenstone itself was the cause of the dragon sickness. Bilbo stared into the flames and wondered - if Kili tried to take the Arkenstone from Thorin, would the spirit of Thrain would effect Kili as well?

Miserable, he gave up joining the group for a bad job and thought to huddle in his bedroll until morning - but when he reached where he had transfigured the boulders into cushions, his stomach dropped even further.

His pack was gone. Ransacked, his bedroll covered in his spare cloaks and supplies, all strewn without care. Dumbly, Bilbo stared for a moment, and then a sharp hold at his elbow pulled him further into the shadows away from the fire. 

"Quiet," snapped Thorin, though Bilbo had made no sound. 

"Thorin," he whispered, tugging his elbow against Thorin's hold. "Somebody has taken...did you take my pack, Thorin?"

Of course, he knew already. The moment he had seen what  _wasn't_ included in the mess on his bedroll, he knew what Thorin had done.

"Thorin, where's the Portkey?"

"It needed to be kept safe." Thorin did not let go. "You care not for gold or jewels, but he does not find the others so trustworthy as you. A  _hobbit_.  _Holbytlan._ A faery tale." Thick fingers caught in his hair, and the stranger with Thorin's voice said speculatively, "Rare as gold itself."

"Thorin," said Bilbo, determined. "Thorin, you know you cannot touch the Portkey."

The fingers wandered from his hair to his chin. Bilbo wished he could see better in the dark - perhaps it would have been easier to pretend it was Thorin, and not a dragon-sick old dwarf king, if he could have seen Thorin's face. As it was, knowing that the spirit of the Horcrux was speaking  _to_  him so forwardly made Bilbo feel like jelly.

"The Portus is safe," it said with Thorin's voice. "The others cannot touch it.  _I_ cannot touch it. We could leave now." Bilbo fumbled as his empty pack was suddenly thrust into his hands - empty, save for the lump of the Portkey still zipped in the front pocket. "The others are treacherous. They will take my gold, like scavengers. You are a hobbit. You have no need for treasure. Oh but you will see its beauty, as do they all. You may not believe the stories, but I will take you into the mountain and show you such marvels as you have never seen!"

Remembering Fili staring Thorin down, as if trying not to startle a Hippogriff into charging, Bilbo carefully, so carefully, put his pack behind him on his bedroll.

"We can't Thorin," he said mildly, heart and mind racing. "We...we need the others. Remember? Balin has the map and - and Oin has the potion. We need them. But, soon, in the morning, you and I can go in... by ourselves even, if you wanted."

Thorin did not respond right away, though he grew so still Bilbo thought he might have left, had it not been for a low rumble of laughter, alien and frightening.

"You tremble like a rabbit."

Bilbo waited, but Thorin didn't speak any further. After a moment, Bilbo had the courage to draw his wand and whisper, " _Lumos_."

He was alone.

Quietly, Bilbo repacked his bag and thanked his lucky stars that Bofur did not awaken when Bilbo returned to the circle and burrowed between him and Bombur, his pack clutched tightly against his stomach, feeling very much like a scared rabbit indeed.

* * *

 

The next morning started out badly and then steadily grew worse. Thorin, when they awoke, was nowhere to be seen. After more than an half an hour of scouting, with Dwalin growing increasing agitated, Gloin eventually found Thorin at the far other side of the valley. 

"Poor lad was staring up the mountain, half frozen and and even less awake," he said concernedly. 

Thorin was not interested in explaining himself, and BIlbo thought Thorin might've hexed Balin when the old dwarf had suggested Thorin sit by the fire to recover for an hour. 

"We leave now," he said. "We waste no more time." 

"What," called Bofur, "before breakfast?" 

" _Now_ ," Thorin snarled.

They packed camp quickly, unease filling the air as the other dwarves finally picked up on Thorin's odd behavior. Dori was holding back Dwalin, whose expression walked a thin line between agitated and anxious; and Fili and Kili worked in silence, giving each other meaningful looks. 

Many times, Bilbo saw Balin approach Thorin - though he spoke in Khuzdul, and so Bilbo did not know what he was saying. Thorin may as well have not spoken Khuzdul as well, for all the attention he gave Balin. Eventually, Balin gave up. 

For his part, Bilbo stayed close to Bofur, practically tucked into the dwarf's armpit. He skittered away when either Oin or Balin came close, worried that Thorin might grab them and force Bilbo to take them ahead and leave the rest of the company behind. 

If Bofur wondered at Bilbo's behavior, he at least was a good enough friend to not ask about it. He kept one hand between Bilbo's shoulders and chatted about what they'd find deep in the mountain.

"Never coulda believed it, when Bombur got the invite to come along. 'Course they needed a professor for a semester, as an excuse to go, but I didn't think  **I'd** be coming too. Neither did Bif'! Now to go into the mountain itself! They'll be singing about all of us for years, mark my words!"

Bilbo was grateful for the distraction Bofur provided, though it didn't keep him from glancing over his shoulder for Thorin every few moments.

He needn't have bothered though. Through it all, Thorin stood still as a statue, staring up the mountain. When the final bag had been packed and shrunk into a portable size, and all the cushions transfigured back to rocks, he finally turned without cue and stalked to Bilbo. 

"Everybody grab hold!" Bilbo called shrilly. "Hurry, hurry now!" He met Thorin's eyes, which flickered a strange unearthly color. The thought darted through his mind, to take everybody up  _except_ for Thorin, to leave him behind - but what could that accomplish, other than leaving Thorin alone with the Arkenstone of Thrain free to poison his mind?

So he waited, until Kili bravely caught Thorin's shoulder, and until everyone was touching somebody or other, before plunging his hand into the pocket where he kept the Portkey. 

His stomach swooped, and he felt the customary tugging round his bellybutton, and the next thing he knew the rocks beneath his feet had turned to soft soil. A sheer rock face rose in front of them, ragged and unmarked. His lungs stung at the sudden shift in air pressure, and all around smelled of snow and ash. A stiff noise creaked above him - he looked up. They were beneath a dead laurel tree, its roots black with old fire. A chilled wind blew, and again the laurel's empty branches knocked and creaked together. 

"Here." Thorin rounded on Oin. "The potion. Now."

Oin dug his hand into his pockets and drew out the phial. Clear as crystal, the potion glowed with captured moonlight. It shone against the mountain in flowing silver and white, but aside from making some very pretty patterns, it did nothing.

Oin shook his head, confused. "It ought to be working."

"No one is doubting your potionwork, brother!"   

"This is the right place, isn't it?" Kili looked to Balin. "We're here, aren't we?" 

"It would seem so." Balin held out the map, squinting. "The raven is clearly roosting in the tree, its beak pointing to the door, and the door is right..." he slapped his hand against the rock-face, "here." 

Bifur looked over his shoulder, studied the map intently, looked at the tree, and said something guttural to Thorin, who did not react. Balin's eyebrows rose, considering, and he said something further in Khuzdul to Thorin, who stared back unresponsive.

Fili, though, said loudly: "That's brilliant! Great idea, Bifur!" he praised, seemingly still sour for Dori having doubted Bifur's usefulness. 

"What is?" asked Bilbo.

"The tree in the map is blooming," said Oin excitedly. " _This_ tree isn't!" 

Thorin shook his head and blinked heavily.

"I told you he had an eye for detail!" bragged Bofur to no one in particular. Bifur made a gesture at him, and Bofur laughed. "Well you do!"

"Brilliant!" crowed Kili. "Now if only we had thought to bring somebody good with Herbology." He winked at BIlbo.

"I most certainly can - "

"Bilbo?" Thorin's voice was rough, like he had spent the entire morning shouting instead of glaring and brooding; but his eyes were, beautifully, clear. 

Relief swooped in Bilbo's chest. "Yes!" he shouted, then, clearing his throat, said, "Yes yes. I can do it, no problem!"

"Ah." Thorin shook his head minutely. He was silent for several moments. "We are relying on you once again," he said at last, his smile more of a wince, as if the motion gave him a headache; but it was a smile nonetheless. Kili and Fili visibly relaxed to see it, but Balin only frowned thoughtfully. 

"You learned to grow things as well, Thorin," he said. "It is a large tree. You ought to help Bilbo." 

Pride and indignation - imagine a hobbit needing a dwarf's help at growing green things! - almost made Bilbo open his mouth hotly, but he remembered Balin's words, " _I have seen you calm his mind._ "

True or not, Bilbo was willing to try anything to keep Thorin with them. Even now, Bilbo could see that Thorin's breathing was ragged, as if he had been holding his breath and was inconspicuously trying to catch it again. Just the thought made Bilbo suddenly furious. If Bilbo could keep Thrain out of Thorin's head, then he would do whatever it took! He grabbed at Thorin's hand.

"Yes good idea!" He said aloud and dragged Thorin with him to the base of the tree.

  
_Oh no you don't,_ he thought at the Horcrux.  _You're not getting him again, if I have to keep him in my pocket up until the very last moment!_

Awkwardly, he settled in the ground so that his knees weren't pinched between the roots, and Thorin sat heavily next to him. 

"I am unsure," he whispered, perhaps aware of the proximity of his company behind them, "how much use I will be to you. I...I am weary, this morning."

"Lazy bones," chided Bilbo, still a bit thrilled to have Thorin back with him and trying not to show his very obvious relief. "Making excuses when you've really just been skimping on practicing your charmwork, eh?" 

Thorin rolled his eyes. "I remember this charm well enough," he said, placing his hands on the roots of the tree. Bilbo still held his left hand, and so he found his own pressed between the blackened bark and Thorin's own hand, and the tender touch was so different form the almost scientifically detached curiosity of the night before that Bilbo might have wept. 

"Ah yes I forgot," he tried to affect nonchalance and instead sounded rather breathless. "Dwarves are masters of delicate work, you said." 

"Just so," Thorin said. He drew his wand from the folds of his cloak, and Bilbo clumsily did the same with his left hand - not willing to pull his own out from under Thorin's. 

 _"Flora Augmentarum_ ," they said together loudly, and Bilbo felt the tree beneath them shift, coming alive again. A hind part of his mind acknowledged that the dwarves behind them were making noises of admiration, but the rest of his brain was riveted at the soft look shining out of Thorin's heartrendingly haggard face. 

"The very first spell I ever saw you perform." Thorin said, watching BIlbo, and perhaps it was the weariness which made him say next, "I remember thinking, 'What comely creature is this, that makes the flowers grow?' I must have circled the courtyard a hundred times, to catch another look at you." 

Bilbo gaped, a strange ringing in his ears. "You... _what_?" 

 _Comely_? Boring Bilbo Baggins, with no beard or beads to his name? Horribly, Bilbo thought Thorin must be possessed again, but he quickly banished that notion and chastised himself for making light of such a thing. 

 _"_ Is it improper to say so?" though tired, Thorin still spoke light enough for Bilbo to hear the tease, and Bilbo felt his face flood red. 

"More unexpected than anything!" he flustered. "You - no, don't you try and fool me!" He took his hand out from Thorin's and waggled his finger at him. "Acting like you were walking round to see me. You were lost, and you know it!" 

"Perhaps, even then, I was," said Thorin softly, and Bilbo again felt like a rabbit - this time caught in a trap, heart pounding furiously, and only the sight of a purple petal, soft as velvet, falling to catch in Thorin's hair broke him out of the spell. 

The company cheered, and Bilbo wrenched his head to look up at the flowering laurel tree, branches heavy beneath the weight of so many blooms, far greater in number than was perhaps necessary. 

"That's a pretty bit of magic!" said Dori, and Bilbo heard Professor Ori's voice, from the mirror in Dori's hand, agreeing loudly. 

"Did it work?" 

Oin again pulled out the phial, and moonlight spilled from his hand to shine against the mountain - and this time, the rock caught and held the light, which ran down the stone like melted silver to form the outline of a door. 

 _"_ By my beard," someone whispered. 

 _"_ By my curly feet," Bilbo muttered, and Thorin snorted. 

"We've done it!" Kili yelped. "We've done it! Uncle!" 

Thorin stepped closer to the mountain - Bilbo wanted to yank him back.  _We're not finished here,_ he imagined himself saying.  _You can't just say you think I'm comely and then change the subject like a lunkhead! It's not dignified!_ Or - if he were braver - _I find you comely as well, Thorin._

Yet Thorin had done just that, and perhaps Bilbo could understand why the mountain was taking precedence at the moment.

_Oh but we are going to **talk about this** when that Horcrux is destroyed, Thorin Oakenshield!_

Carefully, Thorin placed his hand against the stone, looking up as if awed at the shape of the door. It shifted beneath his hand, and he rested his forehead against the stone for a moment as if overcome. 

Then he pushed, and the mountain opened to a narrow tunnel. 

"We shall be the first dwarrows to enter Khazad-Dum in over a century," whispered Balin. Professor Ori made a pained noise from the mirror in Dori's hand.

"And the first hobbit to do so, ever," Fili added. 

Shoulders square and proud, but his head tipped deferentially, Thorin walked into the tunnel. For some reason, the other dwarves did not follow until Bilbo walked in next. Then they stepped in, cautious and awed like sinners in a temple, trailing their hands gently over the wet stone as if unsure they were allowed. 

Bilbo could almost understand. A rock was a rock, whichever way you cut it, but even he as a hobbit felt the moment's significance. Khazad-Dum, of the old dwarf stories, and Bilbo was sneaking through its veins to a treasure chamber! If only his mother could see him now, she'd turn positively green with envy! 

The tunnel angled down, the floor gently morphing to stairs beneath their feet. Around them, the wet walls had grown taller, arching as if into a cathedral. They must be drawing close. 

As they walked, Bilbo noticed that Oin and Gloin had fallen behind. "Come on brother!" Gloin urged, pulling at Oin's hand. 

Oin did not move, hand to his head as if staving off a headache. "Something is wrong," Bilbo heard him grumble. "Something is not good."

"Ah, you've missed a meal, is all." Gloin scoffed. "We'll eat when we stop, you sloth." 

"That's not it," said Oin stubbornly, though he resumed walking spryly enough. "Something is not right."

Bilbo could not agree. Their quest was almost over. Thorin was back with them again - and, he could scarcely still believe it, he thought Bilbo  _comely_.That is, assuming exhaustion and hunger had not impaired his senses. 

In light of those things, it was easy to pretend that things were finally turning back around for the good. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, long story short, my laptop gave out after seven loyal years of service - but it took the first draft of this chapter with it. Turns out that was a blessing, as I much prefer this version, but I do apologize for the longer delay in getting this one out. We're nearing the end everybody! Thank you all for reading!


	20. Dungeons Deep

Bilbo was fully aware that he was the first hobbit in history to ever enter Khazad-Dum - something phenomenal in it's own right, but not only was he the first hobbit to ever enter Khazad-Dum, he was a part of the party which rediscovered Khazad-Dum after centuries of abandonment. It was an honor beyond telling, and Bilbo was determined to give his people a good showing. 

This determination was the only thing which kept him from complaining, loudly, when after what seemed like  _hours_  of walking, there still seemed no end to the tunnel. 

He had begun very excited, of course. The enchanted door had opened into black rock shot through with thin red veins, jagged boulders giving way to high arching ceilings that were lost in the darkness. The dwarves had paused in the entryway, reverent, and Thorin had muttered something prayer-like in dwarvish.

"It is well," he'd told Bilbo, "that we sang for our mothers before entering the mountain."

"Oh?" Shifting nervously, Bilbo had looked determinedly ahead - awkward and uncertain. He remembered the moment beneath the tree keenly, though Thorin gave no indication that anything marvelous had happened.

Though, to be fair, perhaps the rediscovery of a sacred dwarven holy site eclipsed a confession of affection, in terms of priorities.

"Life comes from the mountains," Thorin had explained, still in that prayerful tone. "There are wonders dwarrows have not seen in ages, deep in these tunnels. Come." Dwalin had lit a fire and processed behind Thorin; and down, down, and down they had walked.

The first two levels had been remarkable, if only for the novelty of being inside a mountain. The pressing air, the pitch darkness which wrapped around the light of their fire, a thrill of danger in his blood - Bilbo had fancied himself quite the adventurer. Soon, however, he had detected a pattern: 49 steps to a level, and then a turn to hike through a long hallway, before beginning the next 49 steps down. 

By the time they had reached the third level, Bilbo had grown tired of the downward slope and the stale air around them. His ankles hurt from the incline, his eyes hurt from the dim light, and his fingers were tingling with cold. He was just about to open his mouth - and shame his mother - to ask "are we  _there yet??_ " when Oin groaned from the end of the procession.

"Come brother!" Gloin was saying. "I did not think you drank so heavily as this last night!"

Looking back, Bilbo saw Oin leaning against the wall. Even in the dim light thrown by Dwalin's fire, Oin seemed pale. His eyes, far-off and distant, were glassy; and his chest heaved with labored breath.

"I do not like it," he muttered fiercely.

"Is he alright?" asked Bilbo, trailing behind. Gloin waved his hand dismissively.

"His blood is up," he explained. "It happens often in times of excitement or anxiety. What dwarf would not be anxious, entering these halls!" Gloin gestured to the rock next to them, which had fragments of what appeared to be green glass caught in swirling patterns - almost like a mosaic. Indeed, Bilbo might have found it beautiful, if he weren't so very cold.

They turned into the next hallway, and a cry went down the line. Soon not only Dwalin, but Nori, Bombur, Fili, and Thorin as well all held fistfuls of fire. Bilbo was grateful for the warmth - and thought to thank the others before noticing how still they all stood, gazing up at the rock.

The walls around them were glowing with a silvery light. It put Bilbo in mind of the liquid within a Pensieve. Pulsing as if alive, it caught the firelight and shone, and even beneath the surface of the stone it seemed to swirl and glitter. Bilbo thought it quite pretty. Bofur fell to his knees with a thud, and the dwarves went into  _raptures._

High shouts echoed off the ceiling above them. Fili and Kili ran to the walls; and Thorin was saying something quickly to Balin. Professor Ori, Bilbo could hear, was squeaking from his mirror in Dori's clenched fists. None were louder, however, than (shockingly) Professor Bombur. He had lit his wand with a strange spell, and both Bofur and Bifur were staring at it avidly. Then the light from Professor Bombur's wand turned green. 

"IT IS!" Professor Bombur was shouting. "You're the first, Bofur! You're the first!!" 

Bofur took off his hat and covered his face - weeping, Bilbo realized. His entire frame shook; and even muffled behind his hat, Bilbo could hear Bofur sobbing.

Dori held Ori's mirror, and was swinging it this way and that so that Professor Ori's voice within it squeaked, "Dori slow down! I can't see a thing!" Bilbo caught his elbow.

"What's going on?" he asked. "What is it?"

"Zirak,"said Dori excitedly, and then more meaningfully when Bilbo did not understand: " _Mithril_."

"O-oh," Bilbo nodded. "And...what's that?" Dori appeared scandalized.

"Silver steel, Mister Baggins," Professor Ori's eyes were shining through the mirror. "The driving source of dwarven wealth through the third age. Edhils love no other metal more, both for its beauty and its durability. No sword or spear can pierce it, and only dwarrows know the secret to forging it. We mined it for more than a century; but the demand of the edhils for it was great, and our sources soon died out. None of the dwarven kingdoms have reported mithril in their mines for over five hundred years. All we had were rumors, faery stories, of untapped veins in Khazad-Dum."

"True rumors, it looks like," Bilbo stared up at the rocks with new appreciation. Thorin was speaking in a low voice to Bofur, whose face was wet and shining with tears. "I'm very happy for you, of course, but...ehm?" Bilbo tilted his head towards Bofur with his brow raised high.

Kili, who had hurried near the moment he had heard Professor Ori, clapped Bilbo's shoulder. "Be happy for Bofur, Bilbo! He's just won first rights. Ori, did you _see?_ Here, let me show you - " and he took the mirror from Dori's grasp and hurried Ori over to a shining patch on the floor.

Bilbo now had more new questions than answered ones. "First rights?"

"Bofur is a miner," Dori said. "Miners are charged to till the rock for whatever treasure may be in it. If no other miner has left their mark in this tunnel, then the rights to mine here fall to Bofur and his family - should the mountain be reclaimed, of course." Dori said this last with a strange glint in his eye, staring up at the shimmering treasure.

Bofur was sobbing into Bifur's shoulder. Bilbo could hear him saying, "Zirak!  _Zirak!_ " and "never woulda thought!" and "bless my  _bloody hairy balls, Bif!_ "

"He might not be much - not even a noble - just a miner," Dori went on, "but Mister Bofur has just become a very wealthy dwarf indeed."

"Oh!" He may not have understood the worth of the stuff, but if it were so very important, then Bilbo was very happy indeed for his friend. 

They stayed in that fourth level for a long while. There was a spell which Bofur needed to perform - to mark the tunnel as his for mining, said Bombur - and the other dwarves were happy to admire and shout about the mithril in the walls. Bilbo sat apart from them to watch Bofur call up and send back stone after stone into the floor. Whatever pattern there was in it, Bilbo could not see; and Bofur had to stop often to wipe at his eyes.

"Sickle for your thoughts, Mister Baggins?"

Bilbo looked up into Balin's smiling face, and laughed. "I know how little you dwarves like knuts and sickles, professor," he said. Balin's smile turned mischievous, and he scoffed.

"Play money," he said. "Nothing to gold or jewels."

"Or mithril?"

"Aye," Balin looked at the tunnel, face twisted oddly, "or to that."

Now that was an odd reaction. Bilbo dug into his pockets and pulled out a bent sickle. He offered it to Balin with raised eyebrows; and Balin chuckled, took it, and sat next to Bilbo.

"You don't seem as happy as the others," Bilbo prompted him once they were settled. "Is something wrong? Besides the obvious."

The sickle danced over Balin's knuckles. "The obvious," he mused. "That being the orcs, or the spirit of Thrain?"

Stomach twisting at the thought of both, Bilbo shrugged. "That's enough, I would think, to worry a fellow."

"More than enough," agreed Balin. "But I'm afraid I will need to trouble you with another worry. Tell me - what would you do if I told you that Thorin spoke to me just now, to tell me he plans to give you a fourteenth of the discovered treasure?"

Bilbo gaped. "What!"

"Oh yes," nodded Balin. "Once the proper amount has been added to Erebor's treasury, and once the historical artifacts are returned and restored to their proper holdings, the remaining sum will be split between the company. You will be a very rich hobbit. What will you do with such gold?"

"I...I would not know," replied Bilbo honestly. A large part of his mind rebelled against such a large gift. It could hardly be proper! "Perhaps donate to Hogwarts, or to one of the smaller libraries in the country, if it really must be given to me. Must it though?"

Balin breathed out heavily through his nose. "Ah. Well, thank goodness for the strangeness of hobbits. You'll be immune, at least."

Bilbo blinked. "Pardon? Im _mune_?" Was there some kind of bacteria in the tunnels he hadn't been told about? He thought frantically to his pack. Was there even a handkerchief in there, should he need it?

"The gold in this mountain," Balin waved a hand at his feet, "however much there is - it's been gathered over centuries. It has known the weight of a thousand covetous souls. Wars have been raged over this gold. It has known the greed of a  _dragon._  It is not pure, but cursed. I feel I must warn you. We call it dragon sickness, and dwarrows are weak to it. We would not know our own minds, Bilbo."

Whatever expression twisted Bilbo's face, Balin must have noticed his horror. He held up his hand, showing a ring around his hairy thumb. "We have taken precautions, all of us," he said. "Nori has made us all charms against the sickness. Before now, I had thought they would be enough to protect us. But this mountain holds  _mithril_." Balin rested his hand against the shining wall. "The treasure in the chamber may be very vast indeed, vast enough to tempt beyond Nori's charms. If we fall - we would seem - not ourselves." The sickle bent under the pressure of Balin's hand. "I have to ask you now, before I set eye on that gold. You must watch us. Be wary of us. If any member of our company shows signs of dragon sickness, tell me right away. If  _I_ am the one, then you must take me from the mountain immediately."

"Take you from the - how am I meant to do that?"

"Dwarrows cannot Apparate. We are too much like the stone - perhaps Nori is an exception. But hobbits can come and go as they please, and you can take us with you. Bilbo," Balin put a hand on Bilbo's arm as Dwalin called for them. He waved Dwalin away with a cheery grin, but his grip remained tight on Bilbo's arm. "I will not lose my mind in this place," he said, expression calm. "You will take me from the mountain, the  _moment_  it seems I am."

"How am I to know if you are?" Bilbo whispered. "If you ask me, all of you are mad already for having come here in the first place!"

"Dragon sickness takes what is good and twists it in the mind. It is a terrible thing for a dwarf to bear. Paranoia, secrecy, possession - all things which," here Balin cleared his throat and glanced back towards Thorin. Speaking again, so softly Bilbo almost couldn't hear him, "Those times which we have known Thorin to be under Thrain's influence - that character.  _That_ is dragon sickness, Bilbo."

"I-I will watch you. Of course I will watch you." Feeling frightened, Bilbo shoved his hands into his robes and felt around for his wand. The thought of having to possibly  _use_ it against his friends filled him with dread. He sat with Balin for some time after that, both watching the celebrations of the other dwarves with far less amusement than before. 

Reluctantly, the group left the hall to descend to the next level, still talking loudly. Bilbo hung behind to speak with Bofur. "They'll be singing about you for years, you said," he whispered, putting a hand to Bofur's shoulder. Clearly overwhelmed, Bofur gripped the stone he'd shaped, knuckles pale, and he switched between staring at the walls and shaking his head at the floor. 

"I'm in a dream, Bilbo!" he said thickly. "My family will never be poor again, until the final stone rings the Halls of Resting! I am going to drink _so much mead_ when we get outta here, I'll have to buy the tavern!" he shouted a bit manically. Ahead of them, Bifur cheered. 

"I am so happy for you, Bofur." Bilbo took his elbow and let his friend lean on him heavily as they turned a corner. Bofur's breathing was harsh, and it broke often with disbelieving laughter. After a few more steps down the stairway, Bilbo thought they ought to stop for a moment longer, as his friend was clearly in shock, and he was not the only one with this idea. By the time they had reached the fifth level, Gloin had left Oin behind and had gone to speak with Thorin in a low voice.

Thorin glanced toward the back, eyes roaming first over Oin, then Bofur, and then over Bilbo - who had begun to tremble with the cold.

"We are close," he said. "Yet we have traveled far this morning. We will rest here for a moment, to gather our wits."

They all sat down happily, Ori and Kili talking loudly through the mirror together; and Bofur staggered off to lean against Bombur and Bifur. 

Himself, Bilbo walked a bit further down the corridor, looking for a not-so-damp patch of ground to rest on. He came upon Thorin, Dwalin, and Nori all sitting deep in conversation.

“Dwalin,” said Thorin upon noticing Bilbo. “Our hobbit is cold. Light him a fire.”

“Light him your own,” returned Dwalin. He reached out and pulled Nori close, further away from Thorin and Bilbo. “The two of us have things to discuss.”

“Do we?” breathed Nori disbelievingly, color rising to his cheeks. Dwalin nodded significantly at Bilbo, and Nori gave an “ah” of comprehension. “Oh we do! Lots of things. Private things. Can’t wait, I’m afraid,” and they moved down the tunnel, Nori laughing at something Dwalin whispered.

Bilbo stood somewhat awkwardly before Thorin, that moment beneath the tree still fresh in his mind. For Thorin to say such a thing, as if it were not grand or meaningful at all - perhaps for dwarves, it was not? Did dwarves give each other such compliments often, as brothers or friends? Bilbo dithered.

“Are you cold?” asked Thorin, still seated comfortably on the ground. “Fires are Dwalin’s purview, but I can try my hand if you’d like to risk it.”

“Yes alright.” Bilbo lowered himself stiffly to the ground, not too close to Thorin. Then, feeling badly for treating Thorin like a wild dog, he said: “Just don’t set my robes on fire.”

“I shall do my best,” Thorin drawled. He cupped his hands, placed them together as if praying, and whispered, “Ignbaz.” Between his palms, when he opened them, was a tiny bit of witchfire – blue and slight as a will-o-the-wisp. It stung Bilbo’s fingers when Thorin passed it over.

Gentle warmth spread through his body, the witchfire both unobtrusive and brilliant and filling the corridor with a shivery blue glow, as if they were both underwater instead of however deep inside a mountain."I didn't expect it to be so  _cold_  in here," Bilbo allowed himself to complain as he held the flame closer to his nose.

Thorin made a commiserating noise in his throat. "Clearly whatever orcs infest the lower tunnels have not maintained the central heating."

Bilbo snorted, more at Thorin's smug look than at the joke. He did wish Thorin had not brought up the orcs - the shadows in the tunnel suddenly felt less empty, and more watchful.

"Are," Bilbo swallowed. "Are there  _many_? Orcs, that is. In the tunnels."

"If they have continued to spawn, then there are very many. An exact count I cannot give you." Thorin ran his hand over the stone beneath them. "The mountain is restless, sickened. The orcs are an unwelcome darkness, and we can sense the mountain's disgust. Oin feels it particularly strongly, I fear. There is a reason we have not gone in through the front door, Bilbo, why we could not let word of our quest become common knowledge. You know this. The orcs do not know we are here; they have no way of entering these secret tunnels; and the treasure of the halls remains sealed. We are safe."

"Yes, but, is it possible that the orcs will - we won't run into any, will we?"

"No." said Thorin, so decisively that Bilbo relaxed. "The treasury was the chamber of Smaug - it was sealed by the dragon itself. There are many secret tunnels leading to the chamber, but only a dwarf can open them. If any were trapped inside during the battle, well, they would long have starved by now."

"How much longer do you think we have until we reach the treasury?"

"The walls have been growing more thin, the past hour," Thorin said, as if that answered Bilbo's question at all.

"Which means?"

"This tunnel has been taking us near to, or behind, other rooms, and so we are close." He looked at Bilbo consideringly. "Do you really not have any sense of direction, down here?"

"If you make fun of me for it," warned Bilbo. "I will list each and every time you showed up late to Bombur's class because you had gotten lost in the Great Hall."

"I did not - "

"In the  _Great Hall_ , Thorin. How do you get lost in a single room?"

"Firstly, said Thorin, chin in the air, "it is a very large room, and the tables are shoddy." Bilbo had no idea what the structure of the tables had to do with anything, but he was too busy giggling to ask. " _Secondly_ ," Thorin pressed, the corner of his mouth twitching as if he were fighting off a smile, "as I have not yet 'made fun of you,' I believe you have nothing to say on the matter."

Bilbo conceded the point, and huddled closer to the witchfire, watching his and Thorin's breath cloud in the damp air.

"Erebor is warm," Thorin said, moving almost imperceptibly closer to Bilbo and lifting back his arm awkwardly, as if to raise it but then having thought better. A flush spread up Bilbo's neck, pulse beating hard.

"Perhaps it's warm by dwarven standards," he pointed out quickly, "but you do not feel the cold like hobbits do." Truly, he was not so very cold anymore, yet he feigned a small shiver. He was glad that he was the lone hobbit in the company. If Hamfast Gamgee ever caught wind of Bilbo Baggins pretending to be cold in the hopes that Thorin Oakenshield would put his arm around him - well, Bilbo would never hear the end of it.

Unfortunately, Thorin did not take the hint. One arm remain hooked over his knee, the other bracing himself next to Bilbo, as Throin looked at the walls around them. "You would not be cold in Erebor," he said. "We have fires and billows working from the very heart of the mountain. Their heat fills even the furthest of halls. In each corridor, we light ever-flame in torches of crystal, and its light off the jewels and gold in the walls warms like sunlight. There is no closeness of walls in the common quarters, like these tunnels. The caverns open up wider than sight, the ceilings high, so that you forget you are beneath the earth at all. And we have kitchens," Thorin said this last a bit oddly, stilted. "And we feast often."

"That," Bilbo paused and let himself imagine it. "That sounds quite lovely, actually."

"It is beyond lovely," said Thorin. Then, "I would be pleased to show you, myself, when we finish our duty here."

"After this you will be too busy, I think, to go walking with a hobbit."

"On the contrary. I can think of fewer things I would rather do, than go walking with a hobbit. A certain hobbit, in particular."

Heart full, Bilbo ducked his head and shot Thorin a knowing glance. "Lobelia?"

Thorin chuckled, a low short rumble in his throat, but his eyes remained fixed on Bilbo, almost expectant - and Bilbo realized suddenly that although Thorin was being flatteringly attentive, Bilbo himself had given no indication of returning any regard whatsoever.

If Thorin were a hobbit, Bilbo would have offered to cook them lunch, or asked Thorin what his favorite flower was, or - if he were feeling particularly bold - he would take a page out of his father's book and ask Thorin to go walking with him.

But Thorin was a dwarf, and Bilbo had no idea how dwarves went about doing this sort of thing. He wished he had asked. The closest thing he'd come to seeing dwarven courting behavior was from Kili's bumbling around Professor Ori; and he very much doubted that Thorin would enjoy Bilbo turning his hair blue.

" _Oh_   _fiddlesticks,_ " he thought to himself. " _So you don't know what to do - are you a Ravenclaw or aren't you? Make an educated guess!_ "

Still holding the witchfire in one hand, Bilbo lowered his left to unobtrusively rest on Thorin's on the ground. He gave it a gentle pat. "I'm afraid Lobelia is taken," he said commiseratingly.

For a moment, silence. Then Thorin said, "I shall rally," and his thumb hooked up - warm and rough - over Bilbo's. It felt like a brand over his skin, yet at the same time more gentle than anything Bilbo could remember feeling in a very long time. Bilbo risked a peek at Thorin's face, and delighted at catching the dwarf watching him in return with a tellingly tender look in his eye.

" _Hypothesis confirmed_ ," thought Bilbo smugly, and they stayed like that in the dark until Dwalin came back for them.

 

* * *

 

Seven levels in total, Bilbo counted, from the first red-cave to the mithril tunnel - seven wonders all in themselves - finally down to this, the final hallway: a large stacking of wet rocks, glowing flobberworms, and a solid grey wall of stone.

"Is." He stopped, looked at his companions. " _Is this it? A dead end?_ " he wanted to say. " _Did Thorin take us round the wrong way?_ " Bombur knocked against the rock, to no effect - but Bilbo noticed a shift in the energy around them. The dwarves stood straighter, more eager. They looked with wide eyes toward Thorin.

Bilbo followed suit, waiting to see what would happen, but Thorin was not paying attention. He was looking at Fili; and the fond amusement in Thorin's expression reminded Bilbo of his own father, who would sometimes sneak Bilbo extra treats before elevensies, or who would let Bilbo stay up late reading with him in his study.  _You deserve the treat, my boy_ , Bungo would say, proud.

Fili, in his turn, looked stunned. Bilbo forgot sometimes that Fili was only a few years older than Kili, and younger still than Professor Ori. Without Kili to egg him on, Fili was often quiet and watching, solemn - enough so that Bilbo thought him older than the others. Now, his eyes were wide and shining, the confident tilt to his chin gone in a lapse of uncertainty, and Fili looked very young indeed.

Thorin tilted his head toward the wall and quirked his eyebrow. The other dwarves startled - Dori sniffled loudly, and wiped his eyes.

"Really?" asked Fili in a small voice.

"Durin's blood runs just as true in your veins as in mine."

"Oh Fili," said Kili, almost transcendent with joy. "Wait'll we tell  _mother!"_

"Sorry, er," Bilbo whispered into the ear of the dwarf nearest to him, which turned out to be Nori. "What's...what's going on?"

"Blood seal," Nori said the word as if it were a curse. He sniffed the air and added: "There's a bit of a Seeking Spell on it too. Won't let you in unless you're  of Durin's line, friend to the mountain,  _and_ an active heir of one of the seven kingdoms. Bit pretentious if you ask me."

"Nobody asked you," growled Dwalin. "You're just mad that you can't break it."

"Blood seals," spat Nori, and frowned again.

"It's  _sweet_ ," Dori insisted, gripping Nori's shoulder tightly. "Opening the door of Khazad-Dum? Being  _allowed_ to open it? It's an honor beyond anything." Nori winced, but Bilbo agreed with Dori. The dwarves had talked enough about the mountain, and Bilbo himself felt a bit daunted by the knowledge that what they were doing here would likely make dwarven history. For Thorin to turn over such a momentous thing to Fili - Bilbo's heart pounded in his chest.

Fili searched for one of his many knives, shoulders bowed and face obscured by his braided hair. If the search perhaps took longer than expected, and if Fili's chest rose and fell slowly as if in a struggle to compose himself, then nobody made any mention. With a thin knife pulled from the inside of his coat, Fili cut shallowly into the meat of his thumb.

Blood welled up - blood willingly given, a common ingredient in... Bilbo scowled. Dark magic again! Did dwarves have no true sense of what was proper magic and what wasn't?

Still, he had to admit that the ceremony did not  _seem_ so very dark. Fili was golden and proud in the firelight. He placed his bleeding hand on the tunnel wall, and it - disappeared. Ahead of them, and all around, the rock wall fell back into an enormous chamber.

Bilbo cried out, astounded, but it was lost in the triumphant cheers of the company. Dwalin's witchfire light was tiny, and they were higher up from the ground than expected, but there, just before them, stretched out further than the Great Lake at Hogwarts, was treasure.

Every inch of the floor was covered in gold or glistening gems, bright even under the witchfire, and the piles rose as tall as the Party Tree back home - perhaps taller. Goblets, swords, necklaces, emeralds the size of dogs, all heaped beneath gleaming gold that the company gazed at wonderingly - and which, Bilbo thought - seemed to watch the company in turn.

It made him shudder, this vast and glorious wealth. It was wrong, and strange, somehow; this beauty waiting in the dark for them seemed sinister - but this was clearly a hobbit sensibility that the dwarves did not share. They sighed admiringly, lit their own fires, and stared over the treasure halls. The chamber stretched out and up - larger more than two times the Shire. Even Professor Ori in the mirror was silent as they watched.

Then the dwarves moved to crawl down the face of the wall, finding handholds in the smallest of crevices like billy goats, and those who were not patient enough for even that drew their wands and magicked themselves to the floor.

"Bless my beard," Dwalin was saying as he helped Dori with the bags. Bilbo made to follow, but he was caught up by a body crashing into his. Fili held him  in a tight embrace, arms pressing into Bilbo's ribs. Bilbo fought to not sneeze at the soft braided hair tickling his nose.

The hug lasted longer than Bilbo's comfort with it. Awkwardly, he patted Fili's shoulder. "Erm, there we are, then."

Fili drew back, grinning, and looked Bilbo up and down. "I got to _open the door_ , Bilbo. _Thank_ you!" As if he couldn't contain himself, Fili pulled Bilbo in for one other hug before bounding away to Kili. Bilbo stared.

Passing by, Bifur knocked Bilbo's shoulder gently. He made a sweeping motion with one hand, followed by another sign which Bilbo had seen him use for "good" in the past, before pointing to Thorin.

Bilbo smiled politely, uncomprehending, and Bifur shook his head before transfiguring a nice set of hobbit-sized steps - with a strong handrail - that led to the ground. "Thank you!" chirped Bilbo, gripping the railing as he walked. Dwalin and Gloin had found a system of lights along the walls, which ran along the room like aqueducts of fire. The room was suddenly bright, gold gleaming as if in the sun, diamonds glittering like stars - until Bilbo felt dizzy just looking at it all.

"It's very, erm, bright," he said when he'd reached the bottom. Balin looked at him exasperatedly.

"I have read your essays in the past, Bilbo Baggins," he said. "I know you have prettier words at your disposal than  _that._ "

Truly, he was right - but Bilbo felt as if the others would not appreciate the words he would choose for the hall. It was strange. Bilbo was terribly small in comparison to the great sea of treasure, and yet he also felt an uncanny disdain for it. "I can hardly think of what else to say," he told Balin, who sighed.

"I am glad to hear it, truly," he said. Bilbo suddenly remembered his earlier charge, and he cast a quick and worried eye over Balin.

"How, erm, how are you...feeling? Balin?" 

Balin laughed. "Astounded, thrilled, terrified - I might weep," he winked at Bilbo, "if  _that_ is your idea of being subtle." 

Flushing to his toes, Bilbo squawked, "Well pardon me for  _trying_! Bother - do you have your mind or don't you?"

"I have my mind," Balin said, still chuckling. "Thank you for checking." He laughed again, and Bilbo suspected that a bit of relief was mixed in there, along with amusement at Bilbo. He decided to forgive Balin for it, in that case. 

"Hey!" called Nori from the top of a high pile of coins, face grim. "Thorin - come over here."

Balin squeezed Bilbo's arm once more. "Stay close to Thorin," he muttered and turned to follow.

They all went, the dwarves scaling the climb easily and Bilbo clambering after. He could hear them cursing when they reached the top, and when he joined them, he immediately understood why.

Smaug lay at the bottom of the mound of coins, harsh, unexpected, and ugly - like a giant rat rat found dead in a bread box.

Bilbo had seen many illustrations of the Desolation of Smaug - but of course, they had all been recounted from the dwarven point of view, and so the dwarves in the pictures had been large and central, with the dragon a distant figure. In reality, the body was massive, easily larger than the whole of Hogwarts - and in death, much more terrible than the illustrations had ever captured.

Flesh had rotted away to reveal gleaming black bones, the bare head of the dragon horned and grinning. The teeth were longer than Bilbo was tall, three times over. Above that rose the curves of the rib cage, which could have easily fit the Great Hall. One long, thin bone hung, attached by old skin that looked like leathery, dirty cloth. The bone was the remnant of a wing - Bilbo could see the other laying sprawled on the ground. Together, they spanned at least a mile. He imagined the bones covered in flesh, fire snapping in that great, grinning mouth, and his heart quailed in his chest.

Slowly, they descended down towards the body. Every other step or so, a dwarf would spit on the ground, or make a warding symbol with their fingers. Thorin, in particular, walked with unfocused eyes. Bilbo imagined that this, for the spirit of Thrain, might be stirring: the place of his death.

Well that was all well and good, thought Bilbo, but he wasn't having any of it. Feeling bold, he walked to Thorin and took his hand. Thrain wouldn't be taking control of Thorin here, not if Bilbo could help it.

Thorin stopped, and the company with him. "Even in death, a force of terror," he said. A strange gleam was in his eyes; his face like that of a person searching for a lost memory. Bilbo tightened his grip on Thorin's hand and resisted the urge to Apparate away, noble quest be damned.

The bones loomed high. Belatedly, Bilbo noticed that the gold beneath his feet had darkened - the treasure stained brown and black from dragonsblood. All around glittered great red domes, scales from the dragon's body, hard and enduring as iron and crusted over with shining gold powder.

They all knew the story: how Thrain's sword had pierced the dragon's armor at a weak point, before Thrain himself had been half-crushed beneath the dragon's rolling weight. Still, seeing it here - with Smaug's remains curled on one side, like a wounded worm - Bilbo felt as if the stories never did the real terror of the dragon justice.

Oin crossed himself and spat.

"I shall have to revise my translation yet again," came Professor Ori's voice, shivering through the mirror.

"Find a weapon, goblin-made," said Thorin, his grip hard on Bilbo's hand. He looked away from the dragon. "When this is over, we will find an appropriate place for the remains."

"Pile the scales and claws and teeth," suggested Gloin. "We can make formidable armor and weapons from that material."

"And the head," Thorin said, "we shall save to mount behind the throne, when Khazad-Dum is reclaimed, so that all will see and remember what has happened here."

Bilbo thought that was more than morbid - imagine, a great dragon's head looming over a courtroom! - but he said nothing, only led Thorin away from the others.

"We ought to eat," he told Thorin. If Bilbo had his druther's they'd set up camp far away from the dragon's body. Thorin was clutching the Arkenstone beneath his robes, looking as if he were warding off a heart attack. Being this near to Smaug's remains clearly had an effect of some sort on him - perhaps the spirit of Thrain was growing stronger, the closer it drew to the place of Thrain's death - and if Thorin would not take off the Arkenstone, then Bilbo wanted him away from the treasury. Back at Hogwarts, perhaps, or in Hobbiton, as far from Horcruxes and dragons and adventures as one could get.

Logically, though, Bilbo knew that Smaug's bones lay on what had once been a battlefield. It would be the best place to find a goblin-made weapon. They settled down onto nearby felled rock, and Bilbo rummaged in his pack for some food. "We need to bring some color back into your face," he tried to sound lighter than he felt. 

"Bilbo." Thorin's voice, urgent, brought Bilbo away from his pack. He was pale, he was  _shaking_ , and he leaned heavily with his elbows on his knees. 

"You're alright," Bilbo quickly told him. Thorin stared dazedly at the ground, unseeing, his chest rising and falling shallowly. "You're fine, Thorin." 

"I feel - I think I am..." His grip on the Arkenstone turned his knuckles white. "Bilbo," Thorin blinked heavily, and turned his burning blue eyes on Bilbo. "You must - you must fetch Balin, or Oin. I am not... there are moments of this journey I cannot recall. I have spoken to Dwalin of things which I can remember happening with vivid clarity, only to find that they never took place." The words began stiltedly, but quickly gained momentum. Soon they were pouring from Thorin's mouth, so quickly Bilbo feared that Thorin would work himself into a panic attack. "I have awoken in cold and darkness, and walked there for miles, only to awaken again to find it had been a dream; yet my nephews will insist that I have not slept for days. Even now, I cannot recall coming to this place. Last I woke, the two of us were speaking in the tunnels, and now we stand in a dragon's grave. There are times when I look upon my company and feel such a rage that they be in this place with me, that I cannot...and  _you_...Bilbo." Thorin gripped Bilbo's hand now, painfully tight. "We must not linger long, in this place.

"I am not ignorant. I know of dragon sickness. I know my line's weakness - this is not dragon sickness, Bilbo. I do not know what it is, but we must leave this place, soon." 

"Oh Thorin," Bilbo said, racking his mind for what to do. How could he pretend he had no idea what was wrong with Thorin, when Thorin was so clearly frightened - even if he were doing his best to hide it. How long had Thorin had these fears? How afraid must he be now, to confide in Bilbo this way? 

And how Bilbo  _hated_ himself for wondering if even now, this were not Thorin, but rather Thrain himself, testing to see if Bilbo suspected anything? What could he say?

"You are tired," he said, feeling like giddlescum. "You are stressed, Thorin. We none of us have slept well since leaving Hogwarts, and flights of the mind are common in situations such as these." 

Without thinking, he ran his fingers comfortingly through Thorin's long black hair. "You're alright. You're doing well, and we're almost finished at the end of things. Maybe a day or two more, at most."

Thorin stiffened for a moment, long enough for Bilbo to remember the intimacy implied in touching a dwarf's hair; but before he could apologize, Thorin had relaxed into his side, his own fingers lightly brushing the curls at Bilbo's nape. Thorin sighed.

"Thank you," his low voice rumbled through Bilbo and settled someplace warm in his stomach. He sighed again, settling his head like a stone on Bilbo's shoulder. "I should aid in the search," he said reluctantly.

"You should stay right here and get some rest, if you can," ordered Bilbo - not a small bit selfishly. He did not want to let Thorin go for a moment, if it meant Bilbo was helping. Even if he had to play dumb about the spirit of Thrain, at least he could comfort Thorin like this.

"There are some who would take umbridge at your commanding an heir of Erebor about," Thorin mumbled. 

Bilbo leaned his head against Thorin's and made a dismissive noise. "Oh, you're not so very impressive," he answered, though the fondness in his voice certainly said otherwise. Thorin must be very tired indeed, if he would allow himself to fall asleep on Bilbo in view of the rest of the company. Bilbo continued to run his fingers through Thorin's hair, marveling absentmindedly at the softness of it, and thinking frantically of what to do. 

His fingers brushed a chain round the back of Thorin's neck, the necklace that held the Arkenstone, and he paused with a truly awful idea. " _No don't you_ _dare_ ," he thought to himself. " _You had best not_." 

But the Ravenclaw in him, or perhaps it was the Took in his blood - or possibly even the sensible old Baggins in him, which reasoned that if there's a branch holding down a tomato plant, then it's best to cut that branch off - that urged Bilbo to search for a clasp or catching. 

Nothing. The chain was smooth beneath his fingers, as if it had been soldered around Thorin's neck. Bilbo wouldn't put it past the ridiculousness of dwarves for it to be untrue. Or if there was a catch, he could not find it, because of course a dwarven necklace would be ridiculously complex. Bilbo's hands were not made for delicate and tricky work, like those of dwarves. But his were the hands of a hobbit, and there was more than one way to get a necklace off a body.

Slowly, willing his shaking hands to be steady, Bilbo moved Thorin's hair to the side and out of the way. He thought of his particular hobbit magic - thought the words  _quiet, soft, slow, you cannot see me, you cannot hear me, you cannot feel me -_  andheld the chain away from the back of Thorin's neck with one hand. The other he moved under Thorin's own where it rested over the Arkenstone. Gently, Bilbo coaxed Thorin's hand away, though it clenched over Bilbo's knuckles once or twice. 

He had his hands on the Arkenstone. All that was left now was to - 

With a great clang, followed by a shout of warning, one of the dwarves - Bilbo did not know who - sent up a mighty crash of falling goblets and tinkering gems. Bilbo's heart lodged in his throat, and Thorin jerked awake. Bilbo dropped the Arkenstone like fire, but it was too late.

"NO!" roard Thorin. "Thief!" His face was a thing possessed, white with rage, cold and burning like a madman's. "Rat!" His hands landed heavy as iron bars on Bilbo's shoulders. "You would steal from me! From me! This, of all great things, you would take!" 

"I-I-" Bilbo stammered. His shoulders ached, the flesh giving way easily under Thorin's dwarvish strength. Tears pricked his eyes, a lump choking the words in his throat. He tried to grab Thorin's wrists, tried desperately to Apparate away, but his magic failed him, and he dangled helplessly over the ground as Thorin shouted in a language Bilbo did not understand.

"Thorin!" Balin cried out. "Thorin let him go!"

Disgusted, Thorin did so, tossing Bilbo easily to the side like one might swat a fly. Bilbo landed painfully, though he dared not make a sound. Bofur ran to him and knelt at his side. 

"Look harder!" Thorin roared. "Do not rest - do not touch a _coin of my treasure_ , or your blood will feed the mountain along with the hobbit's." Bilbo began to shake. Surely that did not mean what it sounded like?

"Thorin," said Balin desperately. "Thorin you must sit. You must rest. You are not being yourself." 

"He is a thief," hissed Thorin to himself, grasping at the Arkenstone beneath his robe. "He sought to steal from me. You all will steal from me." He looked up into the grinning face of Smaug. "You will steal from me," he whispered again. "I must get out. I cannot bear it any longer. I must get out."

"We want to help you, Uncle!"

"You must rest -"

"It is not  _here_!" Thorin prowled to the walls and dug in his fingers. They sank into the rock easily. "It is not here. This is not the place." He struck the walls again, and again, tearing at them until his hands began to bleed. 

The others had all returned, and they stood stunned and fearful. Even Dwalin could not move, wide eyes almost childlike as he watched Thorin claw aimlessly on the stone walls. 

Suddenly, like a wire had been cut, Thorin stopped. Stilled. Quieted.

Balin approached him cautiously. 

"Thorin." He urged him to turn from the wall, but Thorin would not move. He sank to his knees instead, and placed his back against the stone. "Thorin, I cannot let you wander in such a state."

"It is not here, Balin," Thorin said, more calmly. 

"Then rest, while we search."

"Not while that rat still has breath in his body," said Thorin, looking at Bilbo. His eyes glittered dangerously.

"Bofur has Bilbo, Thorin. You are overtired and taxed. We will search the night, and you can watch." 

This, at last, seemed to appease Thorin. He settled into the rock further, and watched as the others uneasily dispersed.

For hours, Thorin sat unmoving as a statue - the only motion a sharp turn of his head to track a member of the company should they linger too long over a pile of gold. Bilbo stayed with Bofur and could not stop his shaking. His arms ached, and his heart was sore, and he was truly afraid now of Thorin - of Thrain. He wanted to go home! Weariness sank into his bones, and he was not the only one. Dwalin was blinking his eyes heavily, and Gloin and Oin leaned against one another, unnaturally still. A desperate Kili tugged at Fili's sleeves where Fili lay sleeping on the ground, even while Kili himself sank lower. Professor Ori's voice sounded shrill from where Dori slept against a pillar; but Bilbo could hardly understand a word he said. He was too busy looking at Thorin, who watched back with wide, unblinking eyes, whose mouth moved imperceptibly around a spell that filled the room like mist.

"Something is not right," Bilbo mumbled to Bofur - but Bofur was asleep on his feet, mouth open wide and yawning. Bilbo yawned as well, eyes heavy, and then they closed entirely, and he knew no more. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your patience waiting for this chapter. My work took me to Israel these past few months, and I had very little time to write. I'm home now, and ready to see this story through to the end!


	21. Water in the Sun

 " _Lumos._ " 

Bilbo woke to a voice, low and guttural. He sat up, rubbed his eyes, and saw a light flaring behind a column on the other side of the room. For a moment he puzzled, disoriented by the cold and dark around him. Where was he? What had he been doing, before he'd fallen asleep? His bones felt sore and bruised. How long had he been resting?  

"It's here," came Thorin's voice. The light grew dimmer, more distant, as if its caster were walking away. "Here is the place. Finally. Finally." 

"Thorin?" whispered Bilbo, louder when no response came. "Thorin?" Mindful of the shifting coins around him - what a silly place to nap, in a pile of gold! What had he been thinking? - he got to his feet and followed the fading light. He peeked around the column and saw, to his surprise, a small door-shaped hole that had not been in the wall earlier that day. It opened to a long dark tunnel, and a light flickered within. Without thinking, Bilbo followed, and the door slid back into place behind him. 

All at once, his mind came fully awake, and he remembered the spell that Thorin - no, that Thrain - had cast on the company. He palmed his own wand within his robes, and dawdled for a bit deciding what to do. He couldn't leave Thorin alone here, wherever Thrain was taking him. 

But his arms still ached from where Thrain had grabbed him, and he remembered too the fear he'd felt at the madness in Thorin's eyes. 

Thrain was mad - that was clear - and this admission settled Bilbo's resolve. He couldn't leave Thorin alone here. "Well Baggins," he told himself, "On you go." 

The walls above and around him were dark and wet, and large fuzzy daddy-long legs and glowing flobberworms crawled and squirmed as he went by. Long minutes passed, and still he walked, the ground sloping downwards. He made many turns - right, left, right again, then was it left? He'd lost track. "Thorin?" he called, his voice a shivery echo against the rocks. The moving light paused, and Bilbo picked up his pace. He turned a corner, and there Thorin was. Smiling, wand a gentle light on his face, he looked just as handsome as he'd been the first day Bilbo'd seen him at Hogwarts.  

"Halfling." Thorin said, amused, almost teasing. "Again, you prove light of feet. Have you come to walk with me?" He reached out and took Bilbo's hand. It was wet - Bilbo looked and saw his skin blackened with dirt and blood. "Come." 

"I - " Bilbo's feet scraped on the stone beneath them as he was dragged forward. He remembered how Thorin had clawed at the walls desperately, with no heed to damage done to his body. He'd been looking for the door, perhaps, and had now found it. "Wh-where are we going?" "To the end. You consider yourself a clever thing," Thorin looked at Bilbo consideringly over his shoulder. "You cannot answer this riddle?" 

"To the end...of the tunnel?" asked Bilbo stupidly, then his heart beat faster. "The Horcrux? You...you found a goblin weapon? We're going to destroy the Horcrux here?"  
  
"Not here. Close."

"But...why? Why not in the treasure hall?"

" _My_ treasure hall." Thorin's head snapped lizard-like around to consider Bilbo. "Hmmmm. And what did you think of the gold, halfling?"

Bilbo's wrist was beginning to hurt, and his lungs ached trying to breathe the stifled, unmoving air. Still further down they walked. Dragon sickness, Bilbo remembered Balin's warning, manifested in paranoia, secrecy, and hoarding. "It was beautiful, I'm sure," he said honestly, "but a bit much for this hobbit. I'd be happier with a handful of bread rather than gold."

"Perverse," said Thorin thoughtfully, "but you are a small rodent of a creature. What could you expect to know of the world." 

Bilbo gave a subtle tug on his hand, but Thorin's hand round his wrist was immovable as stone. "We should go back." He gripped his wand tighter in his pocket. "This is important. If we're going to free Thrain, then we should be with the others." 

"Yet you studied in classrooms, with old educators and older tomes." Thorin continued as if Bilbo had not spoken. "Surely they spoke of my treasure halls, of my wealth. My might." 

"Y-yes," said Bilbo, remembering Professor Ori's translation. "They...they called the chamber the golden heart of the mountain."

"What did they say of me?"

 _Thrain, stalwart king and descendent of the Deathless himself_. "They said you fought like lightning against the dragon. That you led a band of fierce warriors to take back the mountain." 

"From the Urukai." Thorin's voice was contemplative, his grip on Bilbo's wrist loosening. Bilbo felt a rush of hope. Was Thrain remembering himself? Was Thorin gaining control? 

"Yes, from the orc," Bilbo said eagerly. "I still remember the translation, if you'd care to hear it! We could...we could stop and I could tell it to you. I could tell it to you back in the  _chamber_ , actually, now that I think of it." 

"You will tell it to me now," demanded Thorin, and his grip tightened and further on they walked. Bilbo hurried along, wracking his brain for the lines of the poem, desperate that perhaps they'd distract Thrain once again.

"D-deep in the golden heart of the mountain they slept, two great evils of fire and death: Smaug the...the Terrible, whose great reaching claws stole l-life and treasure with equal pleasure and that likely foe..."

He talked until his throat felt scratchy and tight. The final line he was nervous to deliver, but Thorin's - Thrain's - reaction was an amused huff, nothing more.

"Finish it then, halfling."

"That's all they wrote about it," Bilbo said. 

"Yet not all you know." Thorin's hand tightened painfully around Bilbo's wrist, and he would spoke quickly to avoid crying out. 

"Y-you told me about how the Horcrux was found with Thrain, beneath the dragon, and - it became an heirloom..."

Bilbo had had enough. He was a respectable hobbit, and a reputable student of Hogwarts. He was not going to be dragged about by his heels by some bully of a dead king! 

As he spoke, he watched Thorin's back, the breadth of his shoulders and the way his long black hair shifted innocuously as they walked, and steeled his nerves. It isn't Thorin, he told himself. It's Thrain. "We should go back," he said suddenly. To himself, he thought, " _Petrificus totalus_." 

"No. Finish it." Drat his ineptitude at silent spells!  _Petrificus totalus!_ Still onward they walked. It began to grow hot in the tunnel. Sweat dripped down Bilbo's nose.

"Thorin," he said firmly, drawing his wand. "Let's go back to the chamber." 

"What is your plan, hobbit?" Thorin laughed. "Will you stun me, and drag me up the cave yourself? Dwarven skin is thick, and my magic far outstrips your own. Your spells will not work against me. And it is a long way up." Though his heart ached at the thought, Bilbo pointed his wand at Thorin's back.

"Petrificus totalus!" It was not Thorin's fault, if his mind had grown sick under Thrain's influence. Bilbo felt nauseous at the thought of jinxing him. But he did not fall, or even falter in his steps. Thorin did not seem concerned at all, and Bilbo began to panic. Sweat beaded down his back. The shadows of the tunnel crawled with a strange heat. How far from the chamber were they? He tried desperately to Apparate them both away, but Thorin would not be moved, and whatever magic was working against Bilbo, it held him in place. Could Bilbo send for help somehow? Oh, if only he were better at Patronus charms!    

“Thorin, I cannot let you do this alone here. We must go back to the others. You must think!" he begged, desperate for Thorin to wake up again. "Think! What do people who make Horcruxes  _want_? They want to live again! They want to possess a vessel, and live again!" As he spoke, the truth of his words stunned him. Why had he never realized it before? "You say that Thrain is trapped, and that you need to free him so he can be at rest. But, Thorin, have you ever considered that Thrain might not  _want_ to rest? That he would want to live again? And who would be the perfect vessel, in that case?” Horror filled him, and he scrabbled at the hand clutching his arm, fighting a sob. "Thorin,  _please_."

"Wrong," hissed Thorin in a low sing-song voice, a wide grin splitting his face. Bilbo's stomach sank.

"King Thrain," he tried instead. Forget pretending that he did not know to whom he really spoke. "King Thrain. Please. At least let us free you with the others, in the chamber. Your spirit can rest in peace. Isn't that for the best?"

"I will not wait a single  _instant_ more, not when I am so close. To be rid of this putrid shell, to finally free myself from centuries of confinement. Ah. At last."

Suddenly, they stopped. Bilbo peered around Thorin's shoulder. They were at a dead end. Before them was simply a charred wall of rock. But it moved, pulsing warm and black, like a sickened heart. Where were they? Oh,  _why_  hadn't Bilbo woken the others? 

Bilbo had never thought that rocks could look sick, yet even he could feel the illness in the mountain. It collected like a slime, dripping clotted... _something..._ down around them. _It burned._

Thorin, too, looked sick, his hands shaking and a wretched paleness blanching his face. His eyes flickered red in the light from his wand.

"Here," he whispered. "Here. Finally." He pressed his hand against the shuddering heart of the mountain, and it sunk in to his wrist. Thorin laughed lowly. "Another blood seal. He thought himself so clever. Yet I have solved the riddle." Triumphantly, he moved to the wall and passed through it easily, and behind him he dragged Bilbo. 

The moment his skin touched the blackened wall, Bilbo's stomach lurched. He thought he would be violently ill. A wave of oppressive heat stole Bilbo's breath, and he clenched his eyes shut. Still, he could see a flare of light burning red as blood through his eyelids.

Bilbo struggled in earnest now, every good instinct in his body shrieking at the feeling in the mountain. Still, Thorin was stronger. They passed through the wall to the other side. Finally, Thorin released his grip on Bilbo's wrist, but there was nowhere to run. They stood on a small dais, and below them raged a pit of breathing fire. “What,” whispered Bilbo as they looked into the abyss. A rounded darkness in the shape of a naked man breathed deeply within the flames, slow and calm as if asleep, miles below the surface of the mountain. What living creature could survive beneath all that fire and rock, Bilbo had no idea. 

Except, that wasn't true, was it? He had heard the stories. He had  _told_ this story. “A..." he almost couldn't dare to speak. "D-durin's bane?"

"It is not clever to know the riddle when shown the answer," said Thorin. 

"You said it was a myth. What…” Slowly, Bilbo backed away, terrified to wake the sleeping thing beneath them. His fingers clawed against the rock behind him. Where was the door? They had to get out. The air was heavy with fire and an oppressive darkness despite it – something was  _wrong_ , and they had to get out of here, now.

"It is asleep." Thorin said. "The Balrog is a shadow - it has no mind, no soul. It only knows to hate the light and love the darkness. It will sleep, unless called to wake, which we have not done. But it is made of fiendfyre - enough to destroy the Horcrux."

He meant to cast the Arkenstone into the pit? Bilbo almost wanted him to do it. Surely, once he let go, the spirit of Thrain would lose its hold on Thorin, and together they could run. But - no - if what Thorin said was true, if there were actually a Balrog down there, then they needed to leave  _now._

"King Thrain," Bilbo pleaded. "King Thrain, please, I know that you don't know me - you don't know anyone here, really, I suppose. But King Thrain, Thorin is your kin! He's a good person. He doesn't deserve this. Please. I... Thorin is so loved, so dearly loved. Can't you rest without taking him away? Can't you wait until we find another way to destroy the Horcrux?"

"Rest at ease, halfling," said Thorin, reaching into his cloak. "I have suffered the confines of this body long enough. I shall live eternal in a greater form more suited to me."

 _What?_ For a mad moment, Bilbo thought Thorin meant  _him -_  a hobbit, a better vessel than a dwarf prince? But then another wave of sickness crashed upon him, and he realized the spirit's intent. 

"The  _Balrog?_  No, no. King Thrain, I cannot -"

A deep rumbling laugh, like the coming of thunder. Thorin held the Arkenstone in his hands now, reverent, and Bilbo barely resisted the urge to curl in a ball and whimper at that wicked light. "Wrong again, little hobbit. Would you like another riddle, to figure it out? I am fond of them.

"Oh, but I have grown impatient. I will not wait another instant longer. I have suffered so long. For centuries," his voice was long and sibilant. "I have slept, passed from one hand to another, until the thoughts of a dwarf, of  _Thorin Oakenshield_ , first turned to destroying the stone. I haveendured the agony of sharing thoughts with a dwarf, of feeling his  _emotions_ and  _hopes_ as if they were my own - no longer." Thorin's eyes flickered away from their lovely blue, now wholly yellow in the shadows. "Have you the answer now, halfling? Or do you require more clues?" He grinned, and realization began to trickle into the edges of Bilbo's brain. 

"Thrain killed Smaug," he said firmly, though he could not believe the words now. He grabbed his wand. He could Apparate away, now that Thorin had released him. He could leave. Run - warn the others. "Thrain killed Smaug, and made the Horcrux before he died."

" _Wrong,"_ hissed Thorin gleefully. Ice plunged down Bilbo's back, and his knees gave out. Dragon sickness, Thrain had had - Dragon sickness, what Balin most feared Thorin falling to. But not that, Bilbo realized. It had never been that. Thorin had not suffered the corruption of dragon sickness, but of a  _dragon_.

"You died," whispered Bilbo helplessly.

"Died," scoffed Thorin. "I  _am_ death. I am  _fire_..." He stared wildly at the whirling flames below. "I am  _fire._ "Thorin's hand shook, light catching off the faceted jewel until it danced like silver in the firelight, like water in the sun, filling the burning room with starlight. Thorin's eyes were crazed, fire-red and hateful as he stared into the stone with greedy, possessive reverence.

"Wake up, Thorin!" Bilbo drew his wand, and Thorin laughed an awful, bubbling laugh.

"What can you hope to do," said Thorin. "You, a hobbit, against the likes of me? I am Smaug the Magnificent, the Golden, the  _Eternal._ I am made of a magic older than the earth which you crawled from. My soul lives immortal. My  _treasure_ will be mine once more. Your pittance spells cannot touch me." A great shadow grew beneath Thorin's feet, stretching up the walls, down the chasm, down to where the Balrog slept. "Be grateful, little hobbit. After centuries of waiting, you have the honor of witnessing my rebirth. May that comfort you, in your death."

Thorin tipped his hands, and in a twinkling flash of fire and ice, the Arkenstone fell to the pit.

The growing shadow dropped with it. At once, Thorin stumbled back from the edge. Eyes wide and wild, he searched out Bilbo. Despite everything, Bilbo wanted to weep with relief when Thorin's eyes met his - clear, familiar, and horrified.

"Why did you not - go. Go  _now_."

The evil red fire went out, plunging the room into darkness. Then, the mountain began to tremble, and a steady glow once again crept up from the pit. "Go Bilbo!" shouted Thorin again.

Bilbo had no time to think. Mind white-hot with fear, he reached for Thorin's outline, grabbed a hank of his hair, and Apparated them back to the chamber in a frantic wrench. Too frantic. Too sudden. Fire scorched his feet, a tug came from behind his navel, and he felt his hand split clean in two.

**Author's Note:**

> Water in the Sun has artwork! Check out the eagle knocker that Ewebean made  
> [here. ](http://ewebean.tumblr.com/image/61043873232)  
> And Kippy did a fantastic Harry Potter interpretation of the [key to Erebor. ](http://peanutbutter-tsundere.tumblr.com/tagged/Water-in-the-Sun) The detail is amazing!


End file.
